


Wrapped in a Yielding Air

by track_04



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day (1993) Fusion, Bathing/Washing, Case Fic, Claustrophobia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Poetry, Shower Sex, Tea, Wind Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-17 04:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14825546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/pseuds/track_04
Summary: Just a normal Tuesday in the life of Martin Blackwood, full of forgotten umbrellas, stale pastries, unhappy bosses, a bit of poetry, and loads of books. And also a strange man with a lightning scar who makes an excellent cup of tea and might just be able to help him save the world. Or at the very least, London.





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).



> Based loosely on your "Mike Gets Press-Ganged into Joining Team Beholding" prompt and your love of Groundhogs Day AUs, both of which were too good to pass up! I had such a great time writing this and I really hope you like it! ♥
> 
> (Note: I took some liberties with canon timing, so just assume that this is set in a world where Jon actually went back to the Archives and that whole pesky kidnapping never happened.)
> 
> Title taken from W.H. Auden's _Able at Times to Cry_ , which is also the first poem that Martin reads. Slight adjustments were made to the wording to fit the canon and the tendency that Leitners have of changing the wording of things. The second poem that Martin reads from is Auden's _Lullaby_.

Martin Blackwood woke up on that Tuesday morning in early May at the usual time, wearing his usual pajamas, and sporting his usual case of horrendous bed head. It felt much like any other Tuesday, nothing about it particularly odd or memorable as he blinked himself awake and fumbled around his nightstand, trying to silence his alarm.

That accomplished, he grabbed his phone and rolled over, checking for messages and, as usual, found none. He laid on his back staring at the ceiling for the five minutes it always took him to wake up completely, and then climbed out of bed.

He ate the same breakfast that he always ate and drank tea out of the same mug he always used, eyeing the small chip on the rim and telling himself, as he always did, that he needed to replace it the next time he got the chance.

He left his dishes in the sink and gathered his things for work, stopping to grab a box of slightly stale pastries off the table before he headed for the door. They had their staff meetings on most Tuesdays at eleven, barring worm infestations and Jon being on the run from the law, and Martin had decided it was his duty to bring in something small and sweet for his co-workers to enjoy while they tried (or didn't) to pretend that theirs was a normal workplace. It was a habit that had started just after he'd been transferred to the Archives, back when he was trying to make a good impression, and he'd kept at it even when Jon was away dodging murder charges and running from the law; it made him feel helpful, and even if he didn't get much in the way of a thank you from any of the others, he knew that they probably appreciated the gesture.

Unfortunately, on this particular Tuesday, grabbing the pastries meant that he'd forgotten to glance out the window to check the weather, wrongly assuming that the sunshine and clear skies from the day before would hold.

He was, of course, wrong.

It started raining halfway to the station, big fat drops that soaked through his jacket and made his fringe stick to his forehead, even with his hood pulled up to offer some protection. He took shelter in the doorway of a nearby building and tucked the box of pastries inside his jacket, hoping that they'd make it through the trip to work without becoming a crushed, soggy mess. He thought longingly of his umbrella, sitting propped against the wall next to his front door, but it was less distance to the station than back to his flat, so he sighed quietly to himself and continued down the sidewalk through the rain.

By the time he got to the station, the bottoms of his trousers and his socks were soaked through, leaving him to suffer through the unique sort of misery that came from feet and ankles wet and cold from the spring rain. He listened to the soft squish-squish his shoes made against the floor as he crossed the platform and sighed, hoping that today would be one of the Tuesdays that Jon decided to come in late or not at all; the thought of a morning full of disapproving looks for disturbing the peace of the Archives with his noisy feet felt even more daunting than usual.

"Awful rain we're having," the middle aged woman standing just to his right said. He knew her face and her hair and her pale blue jacket with the slightly frayed right cuff, had seen her every morning since he'd started working at the Institute. He couldn't remember if they'd ever actually spoken or shared more than a nod or a polite smile.

"Yes, and me without my umbrella." Martin pulled back his hood and grimaced at the way his hair stuck to his forehead.

The woman pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and offered it to him. "Here. I know it's not much, but it might help. Better than nothing, right?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." He took it from her with a grateful smile and attempted to dry his face. "Bit stupid, forgetting it like that." 

She smiled and he couldn't tell if it was actually meant to be kind or if she was just humoring him. "We all have our moments, don't we?"

"Some more than others." Martin started to offer the now-wet handkerchief back to her but she waved him off, looking slightly pained. "Thanks. I'll just--I'll bring it back tomorrow," he said, and they stood there in awkward silence, Martin dripping onto the floor and willing his train not to be late. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when it finally pulled up, stuffing the wet handkerchief in his pocket and leaving the woman behind him on the platform, staring after him and looking faintly amused.

He squeezed himself into a space between two commuters, one of them a man in a sharp suit who seemed to have spent the morning bathing in cologne. Martin turned his head discreetly to the side in a search for fresh air, muttering soft apologies for dripping onto anyone's shoes, and did his best not to smash the box of pastries still tucked inside his jacket.

\--

Jon arrived at work just in time to find Martin at his desk, feet bare and his socks draped over the radiator behind him, the smell of the damp cloth faint but wholly unpleasant. He frowned and gave Martin a disapproving look. "I hope you don't plan on leaving those there all day."

"Oh, no. They should be dry soon." Martin flushed and crossed his feet together beneath the desk, part of him wishing he could disappear under it entirely. "Halfway there already, I'd wager. The rain is awful this morning, isn't it? And I forgot my umbrella at home, and then I got drenched walking to the station--I've put a reminder in my phone so I remember to check before I leave and see if I need it tomorrow, though. Although I suppose if it keeps up like this I'll need a pair of wellies, even with the umbrella."

"We live in London, Martin. Of course it's going to keep up like this." Jon sighed and glanced at his watch, the black band battered and worn at the edges. "Just make sure you have it sorted in time for the meeting."

"Of course. I'll be there. With socks on." Martin let out a nervous bark of laughter and tried not to wilt beneath the weight of the unimpressed look that Jon gave him. He picked up the box of pastries from the edge of his desk and held it out. "Did you want one?"

Jon eyed the slightly crumpled box and its contents and shook his head. "I already ate this morning."

"Oh. Okay." Martin shut the lid and set it back down on his desk, trying not to look disappointed. "I'll just bring them to the meeting, then. In case you're hungry later."

"I'm sure someone will want one," Jon said, wandering off to his office. He stopped in the doorway and called over his shoulder, "And please refrain from walking around the office until your feet are covered again."

Martin mumbled a quick agreement to the empty air and turned to check the state of his socks.

\--

"Martin, might I have a word?"

Martin looked up at Elias, grateful that his now only-slightly-damp socks and shoes were back on his feet. "Oh, um, sure," he started to stand, considered stopping halfway through and hovered awkwardly for a moment before straightening completely. "Should we stay here? I can go to your office if you like."

Martin didn't actually want to go to Elias's office alone, had made a point of avoiding it since the scene that took place there when Jon returned, but his deeply ingrained sense of politeness meant he was opening his mouth and the words were spilling out before he could stop himself.

Elias looked at him like he knew what he was thinking and shook his head. "No, here will be sufficient." He arched an eyebrow. "And this isn't disciplinary, so you can stop looking so worried."

"I didn't think--I mean, that's good." Martin cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Elias's eyes. "So...what is it about, exactly?"

"I have a job for you."

"A job?"

"Yes. There's a flat in Wandsworth that has something that I need. I'd like you to retrieve it for me." 

"Oh." Martin couldn't decide whether or not to be relieved. "What is it you need me to get?"

"A book." Elias took in Martin's slightly confused expression and continued, "A copy of Müller's _The Hymns of the Rigveda_ , to be more precise."

Martin thought about the pounding rain and, without stopping to consider the wisdom of his words, asked, "Can't you just ask the person who lives there?"

"They're otherwise engaged at the moment, and I'd like the book sooner rather than later." Elias looked distinctly unimpressed as he pulled a set of keys and a slip of paper from his pocket and placed them on Martin's desk. "The address is on this paper. It shouldn't take much of your time, since I'm sure you're very busy."

Martin reached out to touch the keys hesitantly, grasping for a good reason to turn him down and coming up empty; if he said no, Elias would probably just ask one of the others, and Martin liked the idea of one of them going in his place even less than the thought of going himself. "We're supposed to have our staff meeting at eleven, but I can go after that."

"I'd rather you went as soon as possible, actually." 

"But Jon--"

"Is nothing I can't handle. He does still report to me."

Martin closed his hand around the keys and swallowed. "Of course. I can--I guess I can go as soon as I gather my things, then."

"Good." Elias smiled, and Martin felt like he'd lost a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting. "I trust you'll put an accurate accounting of your time on your timesheet."

"I--yes. I'll do that." Martin tucked the keys into his pocket and picked up the slip of paper, trying to decide if it was worth it to try to beg an umbrella off one of his co-workers before he went out again.

A small part of him was viciously glad he hadn't thought to offer Elias a pastry.

\--

The building that the flat was in looked ordinary enough, not at all dangerous or dark and looming like Martin had half-expected to find it. In fact, it was downright cheerful, well-maintained and clean, with a window box full of brilliantly colored flowers in each of its many windows. It was the type of building that Martin had always fantasized about living in, but knew, realistically, that he'd never be able to afford.

He felt self-conscious as he walked up to the front door, his hair once again plastered to his forehead and his trousers now wet up to the knees. It took a few minutes of fumbling with the keys before he managed to find the right one and let himself into the building. He took a moment to dig the slip of paper with the address written on it out of his pocket and double-checked the unit number, then put it away and looked down to see nothing but clean, white tile stretched out before him. He stood in the foyer for a long moment, eyeing it nervously, then slipped off his shoes and socks, rolled up the sodden ends of his trousers, and tiptoed carefully down the hallway to flat 6B.

He somehow managed the trip without encountering anyone else in the hall, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into the flat, leaving his socks and shoes in a wet pile by the front door before he ventured further in.

The walls were bare and painted a shade of blue that made it feel like being surrounded by the sky; the artwork lining the halls only added to the illusion, paintings of sunsets and night skies and even one that looked to be the viewpoint of someone staring down from the edge of a cliff into a great chasm, clouds drifting between them and the ground. 

There were no photographs or artwork depicting people or animals or the rolling countrysides that most people seemed to think were proper art. There was only the sky. 

He paused in the doorway of what looked to be a study to stare at the far wall, watching as it shifted, stretching and growing until it stretched out, on and on, endlessly. His stomach lurched and he felt himself falling in spite of the floor still there, firm beneath his feet. He clutched the doorframe and closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass. When he opened them again, the room was back to being what he expected was normal, no larger than it was meant to be and full of too many dusty bookshelves.

"Get it together, Martin," he mumbled to himself and stepped inside. He felt wind on his face as he crossed the threshold, cold and vaguely threatening, enough to ruffle his damp hair; he told himself that it was just a draft and pushed on, refusing to glance in the direction of the room's tightly shut windows.

Bookshelves lined one of the interior walls, light-colored generic things that probably came out of a box, serviceable and nice but not too fancy. They were full to bursting with books, mostly hardcover volumes with unfamiliar titles and the occasional paperback or pamphlet tucked in among them. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how they were placed, like the owner had filed them away as soon as they stopped reading them and had then promptly forgotten they existed, never bothering to touch them again. It made searching their contents nearly impossible, and Martin found himself having to check shelves over more than once, just to be sure he hadn't missed what he was looking for.

An hour and three bookshelves into his search, he happened upon a small blue book tucked between two out-of-sequence volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary. He pulled it out to check the title and found a faded white label attached to the cover that read _Another Time, Wystan Hugh Auden, Published on demand by University Microfilms_ in slightly uneven typeset. 

He knew he should set it aside and keep going, but something about the book caught and held his interest, so he gave into the temptation of taking a short break from his so-far fruitless search and opened it, the pages thin and delicate-feeling beneath his fingertips. 

He flipped past the table of contents to the first page and found a poem with no title other than the roman numeral I written in that strange, uneven type. Without thinking, he started to read it aloud, his voice disturbing the heavy silence that seemed to fill every corner of the room.

> "Wrapped in a yielding air  
>  Beneath the eye's soundless hunger  
>  Close to the sea's clandestine tide  
>  Close to the earth's high hunger  
>  Loud in his hope and his anger  
>  Erect about his skeleton  
>  Stands the expressive lover  
>  Stands the deliberate man--" 

He frowned to himself, the words triggering some faint, long forgotten memory. He'd seen this poem before, somewhere, might have read it when he was younger and had spent long hours tucked away in dusty library corners, bingeing on every book of poetry that he could get his hands on. Something about the words didn't quite fit with the memory, though, felt different than what his mind was telling him they should have been.

He reached into his pocket for his phone, thinking he'd take a picture so that he could look it up later, when a voice interrupted him.

"Can I ask what you're doing in my flat?"

Martin jumped, shutting the book with an audible snap as he looked up to find a small, sandy-haired man standing in the doorway of the room, his light-colored eyes reflecting something dangerous back at him.

"I was just sent to get. I mean, I'm supposed to be--I have a key?" Martin dug in his pocket with his free hand and held the keys to the flat out in front of him, almost like an offering. "Sorry. I should have knocked. I was told you wouldn't be here, so I just let myself in. I didn't know. Sorry, really."

The man stepped closer and Martin's eyes were drawn to the scar that covered one side of his neck, a series of intricate, branching lines. He told himself not to stare, afraid of being rude, but the room's lighting and the pale, almost colorless quality of the man's skin made it hard to tell where those lines began or ended, and he felt almost compelled to try.

The man reached up to take the keys, his arm briefly blocking Martin's view of the scar and breaking the spell. "Did you get these from Harriet?"

"I don't know any Harriets. Except for the one who used to live two doors down from our house in Yelverton, but that's when I was eight and I'm not even sure she's still alive." Martin blinked and shook his head, trying to clear some of the fog. "Elias gave them to me."

"Elias. So I can assume you're with the Institute." The man's expression was somehow both blankly polite and angry at the same time; his scar seemed to light up for a brief moment, flickering. 

Martin felt his stomach drop, a sudden, cold wind making him stumble forward. He reached for the bookshelf, wanting to ground himself, but his hand found nothing but empty air. He turned his head to see the bookshelves off in the distance, miles away, leaving him alone in the middle of an endless room with the man and the small, blue book that he still had clutched in one hand.

"I already gave my statement to your Archivist."

"I'm not--I don't do the statements. I mean, not like that? I mostly just read them. And I don't have a recorder with me anyway, and the last time I tried to take a statement it cost me five pounds." Martin closed his eyes and resisted the urge to look down to see if it was still the floor that he felt beneath his feet. "I just came to get a book. That's all."

"A book." The man's voice went flat and Martin felt his stomach settle back into its proper place, the wind dying down and the air around him suddenly feeling much less empty. The abruptness of it made him sway on his feet and he reached out on reflex, this time finding the bookshelf waiting for him. He clung to it as he cautiously opened his eyes. 

"Yes. It's, um--Müller. The Rigveda, I think?" Martin took a deep breath in through his nose and tried to ignore his urge to wretch; vomiting on someone's carpeting was frowned upon in even the best of circumstances, and the man standing in front of him already looked like he might want to kill him. He didn't want to push it. "Elias said he wanted it."

"And he sent you to get it."

"Yes?"

"And he gave you keys, which I assume he must have gotten from Harriet." The man sighed, his anger shifting into something more passive, defeated. "Müller, you said?"

Martin nodded hesitantly and watched as he moved to one of the bookshelves, fingers skimming along the spines of books until they came to rest on a thick, leather-bound volume. He worked it free and handed it to Martin.

"Oh. Thank you. That would have taken me ages to find." Martin smiled nervously and felt the wind rushing around his ears in the few seconds that it took the man to shrug. His hand shook as he reached out to take the book from him.

"Is that all you need?"

"Yes? I think so, anyway. That's all he asked for."

"Good. Now, if you wouldn't mind leaving, I have things to do."

Martin swallowed heavily and blinked a few times, waiting to see if the walls started to move again. "Of course. I--sorry again. And thank you. I appreciate it."

"Tell Elias that the next time one of your lot shows up at my door without forewarning, I won't be nearly as generous as I was with you or the Archivist."

"So Jon's been--" The man's scar seemed to shimmer and Martin stopped that line of questioning, knowing a warning when he saw one. He felt a bit ridiculous as he edged around the man--who was easily a foot shorter than him--towards the door. "Right. I really am sorry about this. It won't happen again."

The man didn't say anything as he passed, just watched him with his unsettling, stormy eyes.

\--

Walking into the Institute with wet socks and shoes was somehow worse the second time than the first. The fact that Rosie was there to see him this time didn't help, even if she did offer him a hand towel before she told him that Elias was waiting for him in his office.

"Great." Martin pulled down his hood and dried his hair, trying not to leave a trail behind him as he made his way up the stairs to Elias's office.

Elias was waiting for him at his desk, his door open and a faintly disapproving look on his face when he looked up to see him, wet and miserable in the doorway. "That was faster than I thought you'd manage."

"Yes, well, I had a bit of help. Turns out the man who lives in that flat wasn't away after all." Martin crossed the room to Elias's desk, avoiding the expensive-looking carpet and sticking to the wood flooring, taking the long way round until he reached the side. He retrieved the book from his bag and laid it on Elias's desk, feeling almost triumphant. "Probably would have taken me ages otherwise. I don't think he really bothered organizing his books. At least not in any way I could figure out."

"No, he probably wouldn't." Elias reached for it and gave Martin an assessing look. "So, you say he's back? That's a bit unexpected."

"Yes. Seemed upset, too. Which is probably understandable, since I sort of broke into his place? I mean, I had the keys you gave me, but it's not like he invited me in. And I was snooping through his books and probably got his floor all wet." Martin made a face. "He, uh, said that next time someone from the Institute shows up without telling him beforehand, he won't be so generous. He didn't say he'd hurt anyone but it was sort of...implied."

"I suppose we'll find out when the time comes, won't we? Thank you, Martin."

"You're welcome. I mean, you are technically my boss and it is part of my job but--" Elias gave Martin a warning look and Martin stopped to clear his throat. "Right. I'll just go then."

"Yes. Be sure to take your book with you."

"What?"

"Your book." Elias motioned to the desk, where a familiar, worn out blue cover stared up at him.

Martin stared blankly down at it. "Where did that come from?"

"You brought it, Martin."

"I didn't. I put it back before I left. I know I did. Or I think I did. Maybe."

"It's rather obvious that you didn't."

"I guess." Martin picked it up carefully, like it might burn him, and stared at the cover guiltily. "I really didn't mean to leave with it. I should probably return it--" Martin started, then noticed Elias giving him another of those warning looks. "Tomorrow, that is. I've been away long enough for one day."

"Yes. There's always tomorrow," Elias said, no longer bothering with the pretense of looking at Martin as he went back to whatever it was he did in his office all day. 

"Tomorrow," Martin agreed and turned to head back down to the Archives, acutely aware of both the book clutched in his hand and the wet slap of his shoes against the floor.

\--

As he sat on his sofa that evening, wrapped in his dressing gown with the box of now mostly-stale pastries sitting open beside him, he told himself that there were worse things about this day than eating leftover pastries for dinner.

He was, of course, correct.


	2. Not Wednesday

The rain was still falling in the morning, the same fat drops beating down on Martin's head as he dashed out of his building. His umbrella was once again forgotten next to his door, his morning off to a late enough start that he had no time to turn back for it. The book of poems was tucked safely into his bag as he ran, hood pulled up in a vain attempt to stay somewhat dry. This time, at least, he didn't have the pastries to worry about, the box and its likely mostly-stale contents on his table where he'd left him the night before.

He was slightly more soaked when he made it to the station this time. He found his usual spot on the platform and the woman in the blue jacket turned to him with a wry expression. "Awful rain we're having."

"Yes. And me without my umbrella again. You'd think I would have remembered after yesterday."

She gave him a slightly confused look and reached into her bag, offering him a handkerchief that matched the one she'd given him the day before. "Well, none of us are perfect."

"Oh no. I meant to bring back your other one," Martin said and reached for it. "I can give it to you tomorrow, if you'd like. I'm really very sorry."

She gave him a slightly puzzled look. "My other what?"

"Your handkerchief," Martin said, trying to hand the one he was holding back to her. She waved him off again, still looking confused, and he sighed and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll bring them both back tomorrow. I promise. Freshly laundered. And I won't forget my umbrella again."

"Yes," she said, sounding like she was trying to puzzle out some sort of hidden meaning from his words. "I'm sure you won't."

The train pulled up then, saving them both from more awkwardness, and Martin called out another thanks as he climbed aboard, leaving her behind on the platform, still looking faintly baffled.

\--

"I hope you're not planning on leaving those there all day." Jon had, once again, gotten to work just in time to find Martin barefoot at his desk.

"Morning. Forgot my umbrella again, can you believe it?" Martin smiled nervously at him and gave a little wave, trying to decide if he looked more or less put-off by the current state of Martin's feet than he had the day before. "Some rain we're having, isnt it? If it keeps this up, my feet may never be dry again."

"We live in London. Of course it's going to keep up like this." Jon sighed. "Perhaps you should consider investing in some boots." 

"It is a good idea." Martin rubbed the back of his neck. "I really should learn to take my own advice, shouldn't I?"

"Right." Jon frowned. "Just see that you have it sorted in time for the meeting."

"Oh, I didn't realized--I was actually wondering if it would be alright if I popped out for a bit? I need to return a book." Martin flinched at the look Jon gave him, but forced a smile and soldiered on anyway. "I can stay until after the meeting if you like. I'd feel bad, missing it again."

Jon gave him a slightly perplexed look. "Really, Martin, you can't go to the library on your own time?"

"Oh, it's not a library book. I sort of stole it? Well, not really stole, so much as accidentally took it with me when I left. Although I swear I put it back on the shelf, but then it was on Elias's desk, so clearly I didn't--" 

"It's too early for this." Jon sighed and turned toward his office. "Just make sure you're not gone all day."

"Right. Definitely. Should I wait until after the meeting?"

"No, just go."

"Are you sure? Because I can--"

"Martin." Jon stopped in his doorway and turned to look at him. "Go and return your book. I'm sure we can manage without you."

"I--okay. I won't miss again after this. I promise." 

"It's fine, Martin."

"Oh, Jon! You don't happen to have an umbrella I could borrow, do you?" Martin listened to the dull thud of Jon's office door shutting behind him and sighed. "Guess not."

\--

The building looked just as cheerful as it had the day before, the flowers in their window boxes bright in spite of the general gloom hanging over the city. He admired the ones next to the entrance as he huddled on the stoop in a futile attempt to avoid the rain, wishing he'd waited just one more day to give the man his keys back.

He eyed the names on the buzzer, no idea which was the one that he wanted; he thought about picking one at random, but the thought of bothering a complete stranger made him feel so guilty that he just stood there instead, frozen in indecision.

Luckily, he was saved by an elderly woman who chose that moment to climb the steps, shopping bag in hand. 

"Look at you," she said, squinting at his water-logged clothing and clucking her tongue. "Did you get locked out, dear?"

"Oh, no. I came to return something to the man who lives in 6B, but I wasn't sure who to buzz? Which probably sounds suspicious, now that I think about it, but it's just a book, I swear. Nothing dodgy. I just didn't catch his name when I...borrowed it."

"6B, you said?" 

"Yes. 6B. Short man, sandy hair...he's got a--" Martin waved his hand in front of his neck to indicate the man's scar.

For a moment, he was afraid she'd leave him standing there in the rain or threaten to phone the police, but all she did was nod her head knowingly. "Oh, yes, that would be Mr. Crew. A bit quiet, that one, but very polite. A few of the others in this building could take lessons from him, if you ask me."

"Yes. He seems...nice."

"I don't know about all that, but I'll take polite over nice any day." She handed him the bag with her shopping and then retrieved her keys from her purse. "Be a dear and help me bring this up to my flat and then you can go talk to your friend."

"He's not my--I mean, of course. Thank you. I really appreciate this. I don't know what I would have--" 

"No need to overdo it. Come along," she said, opening the front door and starting off without so much as a glance behind her.

Martin tried not to think about the mess he was leaving on the flooring as he followed her, the shopping bag clutched in one hand.

\--

The man--Mr. Crew--opened the door to Martin's knocking, a blandly polite expression on his face. The politeness didn't fade when he saw Martin, but something in his eyes made him want to take a step back and put that extra bit of space between them. "I thought I told you that I wanted forewarning before one of you showed up on my doorstep again."

Martin swallowed and did his best to look harmless. "Yes, I know! You did. And I would have, but I didn't have your number or any way to get in touch with you. Although I suppose I could have asked Elias. But he's always so busy doing whatever it is that he does, and I didn't want to upset him--" Martin watched the way the man's face became even more blankly polite the longer he spoke. He stopped and took a deep breath. "Sorry. I don't mean to bother you."

"Then why exactly are you here?"

"I stole your book."

"I don't think you did. I'm fairly certain I gave it to you when you asked for it."

"No, not that book." Martin reached into his bag and pulled out the small blue volume, glad to see that the rain hadn't managed to seep through his bag enough to get to it. "This one. I swear I didn't take it on purpose, but I found it when I got back to work yesterday, and I thought I should return it. In case you needed it."

He reached out to take it, frowning a little as he read the title. "You're sure this is mine?"

"Yes? It was on your bookshelf. I promise, this isn't some sort of trick--"

"No," the man said, his pale eyes looking Martin over slowly. "I don't think tricks are your forte, are they?" 

"Not really."

He eyed Martin's shoes and then, seeming to come to a decision, motioned him inside. "Would you like to come in and dry off? I was just going to put on the kettle."

"Oh, I. Yes, that would be brilliant." Martin hesitated, remembering the man's angry eyes and the lurch his stomach gave as the world shifted around him. He stepped forward into the flat anyway, reasoning that even inhuman monsters wouldn't offer someone tea if they intended to murder them. "Thank you. Um, Mr. Crew, is it? The woman who let me in said that was your name."

"Mike, please."

"Right. Mike. Pleased to meet you. Or meet you properly, anyway." Martin smiled and slipped his shoes off, leaving them to dry by the door as he held out a hand. "I'm Martin. Martin Blackwood." 

The man's hand sent a faint shock through his when they touched and Martin flinched, trying not to let his smile waver. "Nice to meet you, Martin Blackwood." 

Martin couldn't tell from his tone of voice if he actually meant it, but it was still nice to hear. "You, too. And you can call me Martin."

\--

"You have a nice flat." Martin sat in the armchair, back stiff and hands resting on his knees. There was a towel spread out underneath him and a fresh cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him.

Mike was seated directly across from him in the room's other armchair, wearing what Martin was starting to think of as his default expression, blandly polite in a way that made it hard to tell if he was very bored or very interested in everything Martin had to say. 

"Do I?" 

"Yes? Nicer than mine, at least." Martin reached for his cup and took a drink, using the pretense to get a better look around. "It's big and, you know, light? Full of light, that is. My flat only has the one window, so it's always a bit dim."

"I suppose the light is nice, now that you mention it. I'd never really noticed before." Mike's was watching him again, his strange-colored eyes sharp and unblinking. "Did you really come all this way just to return my book? I wouldn't have noticed if you'd kept it, you know."

"I don't think it matters if you wouldn't have noticed. I just--it didn't feel right to keep it. It would have been too much like stealing. And I never would have known for sure that you didn't want it back." 

Mike blinked slowly, like he'd suddenly remembered that it was required of him. "You're very sincere for one of Beholding's people."

"Am I?" Martin laughed nervously. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."

"Just an observation." Mike eyed Martin's cup. "How's the tea? I can get you something else, if you'd like."

"No, the tea's great," Martin said and took another drink. "Just the thing I needed."

"Glad you're enjoying it." The mask of politeness slipped from his face for a moment and he actually looked almost pleased. "You're looking a bit less water logged as well."

"Yes. Thank you for the towel. Still can't believe I ran off without my umbrella."

"You seem to do that a lot."

"I guess it would seem like that, wouldn't it? You must think I'm a mess."

"A bit." Mike shrugged, the words matter-of-fact and surprisingly free of judgment. 

"Thank you?" Martin finished the last of his tea and set the empty cup on the table, then stood. "I should probably--"

"Of course." Mike stood and motioned for him to lead the way, then followed him to the door. Martin suspected it may have been to see just how much of a mess Martin's damp, dirty socks were leaving on the floor.

Mike proved him wrong when he took an umbrella out of the bin next to the door and offered it to him, seeming completely unconcerned with the state of his flooring. "Here."

"Oh, I--are you sure? I'm not sure when I'd be able to return it and you wouldn't have anything to use…"

"It's fine," Mike said and placed it in his hand, waiting until Martin curled his fingers around it. "I don't really need it. Sky powers and all that. Rain's not much of an issue." He took in Martin's blank look and nodded. "I'm guessing Elias didn't tell you."

"No, he didn't mention that." Martin finished taking the umbrella and gave Mike a grateful smile. "Thank you. For the tea, too. I'm sorry again about...everything."

"It's alright. I rather enjoyed our chat."

"Really?"

Mike shrugged. "I don't really get many visitors. It was a nice change."

"Oh, well. Thank you. Maybe I'll see you again sometime?"

"Maybe. Please remember to shut the door behind you," Mike said, then turned back down the hall, leaving Martin standing in the entryway and staring after him, clutching his borrowed umbrella in both hands.


	3. Thursday?

It was still raining when Martin left for work in the morning but, miraculously, he actually remembered to grab his umbrella before he left the house. He'd forgotten the one Mike had given him at his desk at work, and he had no intention of arriving to work wet and disheveled for the third day in a row.

His feet and the bottoms of his trousers were still wet when he made it to the station, but the rest of him had managed to stay somewhat dry. The woman in the blue coat turned to give him a quick look as he took up his usual place. He smiled at her and held up his umbrella. "I finally remembered."

She eyed him like she wasn't sure if she should engage him in conversation or move further down the platform. "That's good."

Martin dropped his arm and tried to sound a bit less enthusiastic. "This rain is a bit much, isn't it?"

"I'd say," the woman said, looking slightly less unnerved, either because Martin was no longer wielding his umbrella like a club, or because they were talking about the weather, a topic that was both safe and of great interest to them both as Londoners. "My sister texted me, said all the trains at North Ealing were delayed. Flooding in the tunnels. They think there may have even been a cave-in in one of them. Lucky thing no one seems to have been hurt."

"Really? That's terrible. But I supposed we have been getting a lot of rain--"

"Not enough to be flooding anything." She shook her head. "You'd think they'd find a way to get it sorted. It's not like the rain's not to be expected."

"I suppose not," Martin agreed and leaned forward in an attempt to peer down the tracks. "You don't think they're having any problems here, do you?"

"Nothing that seems to be making the trains late. Or at least not any later than usual."

Martin laughed a little at that, leaning back when he spotted lights just down the tunnel. "Well, it looks like mine is on time, anyway. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow. Hopefully things will be drier by then."

"We'll see."

It was only as the train was pulling out of the station that he remembered the woman's handkerchiefs, likely lying in his hamper with the rest of his dirty laundry, still tucked in the pockets of the pairs of trousers he'd worn over the previous two days. He mentally kicked himself and dug his phone out of his pocket to set a reminder, determined not to forget them again.

\--

"I hope you don't plan on leaving those there all day."

Martin looked up to find Jon staring at him judgmentally, once again barefoot at his desk, for the third day in a row. "No, sorry! I know it keeps happening, but it's just this rain is awful. I even remembered my umbrella today, but it didn't seem to do much good for my feet. I just hope it stops soon--"

"We live in London, Martin. It probably won't stop anytime soon." Jon glanced at his watch and then back at Martin and his gently steaming socks. "Just be sure you have it sorted in time for the team meeting."

"Meeting? I didn't realize you'd rescheduled again. I thought you said yesterday that you were going to go on without me."

Jon frowned, staring at him in confusion. "What do you mean rescheduled? We always have team meetings on Tuesdays, Martin."

Martin frowned back at him. "Yes, I know? But today's Thursday."

"No," Jon said, speaking very slowly and deliberately. "Today is Tuesday."

"No it's not. It's--is this a joke?" Martin laughed nervously, looking around him for signs of anyone else. If it had been two years earlier, he would have assumed this was a prank that Tim had somehow convinced Jon to help him with; now, he had no idea what to make of it. "It can't be Tuesday. Tuesday is when Elias asked me to get that book for him. That's why I missed the first meeting. And that was the day you caught me with my socks off for the first time. It was the day the rain started in the first place."

"The rain started today, Martin. This morning, in fact. And I think I'd remember it if I'd seen you at your desk with your socks off multiple days in a row." For a brief moment, Jon's expression started to look worried, but then it shifted into anger instead. "Did Tim put you up to this?"

"What? No--"

"Well, tell him I'm very glad that he's feeling up to pulling pranks again, but I'd rather not be involved." Jon turned and stomped into his office, muttering, "It's too early for this," before he slammed the door behind him.

Martin stared at the closed door and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

\--

Martin found Basira seated on the floor in the back of the office with a book in her lap, wearing her usual expression of complete and utter calm. He'd originally gone looking for Tim or Melanie, but neither of them were anywhere to be found; when he stopped to think about it, he was glad that Basira was the one he'd managed to find instead. She didn't comment on the sound his still mostly-wet shoes made against the flooring as he walked up to her or look the least bit annoyed to see him.

"Hello, Martin."

"Basira, hi." Martin hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should take a seat beside her or if it was more polite to remain standing. He decided that she probably didn't care either way, so he stayed where he was and leaned down a bit so she didn't have to tilt her head quite so far back to look at him. "Have you talked to Jon lately?"

"A few times. Mostly when I've had questions about something specific. Or when he's come looking for Daisy. Why?"

Martin frowned a little, filing the _looking for Daisy_ comment away as something to consider at a later date. Those two being in close proximity really didn't seem like it would lead to anything good. "Did he seem weird to you?"

"That depends on whether or not you mean normal Jon-weird or some other kind of weird. He made a really bad joke about track suits the last time I saw him, but I wouldn't really consider that anything out of the ordinary."

"Are you sure it was a joke? Because Jon--no, nevermind. That's not important. Did he seem confused at all when you talked to him?"

Basira shook her head. "No. Why?" 

"Because I was talking to him this morning, and he tried to tell me it was Tuesday. And when I told him it was Thursday he acted like I was crazy." The blank look that Basira gave him only made Martin feel more worried, and with that worry came his tendency to ramble. "I mean, I know he's been under a lot of stress lately, but misplacing two whole days seems a bit much. And he even tried to tell me that it started raining this morning, when I know for a fact that that's not true. This is the third day I've had to dry my socks on the radiator, so it couldn't have just started. And now I'm worried that he may finally be losing it. Really losing it. Even more so than usual. I don't know if I should bring it up with Elias or--"

"Martin."

"It is worrying, right?"

Basira nodded slowly and set her book aside, standing so that it was easier to look him in the eye. "Are you feeling alright? You haven't hit your head, have you? Touched something you shouldn't have down in Artefacts Storage?"

"What? No." Martin squinted at her. "Why are you asking me that? Jon's the one--"

"Martin," she said, using the voice that he'd heard her pull out once when she was trying to calm down a distraught statement giver who'd been threatening to light one of the boxes of statements on fire. "Today is Tuesday."

Martin laughed nervously and took a step back, like the distance would somehow change what she was saying to him. "No it's not. It's Thursday." He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, hitting the button to wake it up so that he could pull up the date and time and prove it to her. Something he should have done earlier with Jon, if only he'd thought of it. "See, it says right here--"

"Yes, it does."

Martin turned the phone to look at it, feeling himself starting to panic when he saw **TUESDAY** staring back at him. "Wait, that can't be right. I swear I looked at it this morning and it said Thursday. I know it did. It had to."

Basira rested a hand on his wrist, pushing against it gently until he lowered the phone and looked at her again. "Are you sure you're feeling alright? Maybe you should let me take you to see a doctor."

"What? No. I don't need--I'm not ill. I didn't hit my head and I haven't been to Artefacts Storage in months and...I'm not wrong here. Today is Thursday!" He pulled his arm out of her grasp and took another step back, unsure what to make of all this. He knew he was right. But he also knew deep down that Basira wouldn't lie to him like this. Even if the others were playing a prank on him, she wouldn't be the type to go along with it. "Tuesday was the day that I went to Mike's flat for the first time. And on Wednesday, I went back there to return his book and we had tea and he gave me his umbrella. I know that both of those things happened. I remember them."

Basira frowned. "I haven't seen you leave the office during the day for at least a week. Are you sure you didn't have a dream or--"

"It wasn't a dream," Martin said, desperately searching for some way to prove to the both of them that he wasn't going crazy. "Wait, Mike. That's it. He talked to me both days. He'll remember. I'll just go talk to him and then bring him back here and he can confirm everything I'm saying. And then you'll have to believe me."

"I really don't think you should leave right now."

"It's fine, Basira. I'm fine. Tell Jon I had to go out for a bit." Martin turned and half-ran down the aisle and out of the office, determined to straighten this all out and prove that he wasn't making things up or losing his mind. He left his things at his desk, afraid that if he stopped to gather them that someone would try to stop him. 

Getting to Mike's was more important. If Mike remembered him, then everything would have to be okay.

\--

Martin was flushed and out of breath by the time he reached Mike's building. The wind had done its best to ensure that his umbrella did little in the way of keeping him dry, blowing the rain right at him, so that he was once again soaked when he climbed onto the front stoop and hit the buzzer next to the name _Crew_.

He waited for Mike's voice or the click of the door being released, but all he got was silence. He'd just started contemplating the merits of walking around the side of the building and rapping on windows until he found one that belonged to Mike when the old woman from the day before walked up the front steps, shopping bag in hand. 

"Look at you." She clucked her tongue at him, the same way she had the day before, and squinted up at him. "Did you get locked out, dear?"

"No," Martin said, doing his best to speak around the tightness in his throat. "I came to visit my friend--Mike Crew? I pressed the buzzer for him, but he doesn't seem to be answering."

"Oh, he may not be at home, then. Always out and about and traveling the world, that one." The woman handed him her bag again and he took it, watching as she rummaged around in her purse for her keys. "Did you try phoning him?"

"I would but I--lost his number," Martin lied, glad that the woman seemed too intent on unlocking the door to notice his voice falter. "Do you think...would you mind letting me in the building? I know he should be home sometime today, and I can just wait outside his door if he's not in. I promise I won't disturb anyone else."

She finally managed the lock on the door and pulled it open, turning to give him an assessing look. "Be a dear and help me bring my shopping up to my flat and then you can go talk to your friend."

"Of course," Martin said, offering her a strained smile as he followed her through the front door.

\--

Martin knocked on Mike's door a bit more forcefully than was probably necessary, taking a deep breath and telling himself not to panic. If Mike wasn't in, he could just wait here until he got back. He'd probably just gone out to run an errand or pick up something from the corner shop; he'd be back again soon, and then Martin could ask him if he remembered him and he'd know he wasn't crazy. And if he knew he wasn't crazy, then everything else would be fine.

Maybe he could even ask Mike to help him. He didn't seem too keen on anyone associated with the Institute, but he had been nice to Martin the day before, and he'd given him tea, and he didn't seem like he wanted to kill him anymore, which all seemed like good signs. Or at least signs that he wouldn't hurt him simply for asking. And if he wouldn't help, then maybe he'd let Martin look at his books and see if there was an answer buried somewhere in all those pages--

"Can I help you?" The door opened to reveal Mike, quiet annoyance leaking in around the edges of his usually polite tone. "--Martin?"

"Yes. Oh, thank god, you're home." Martin dropped his hand, knuckles a bit sore from his overzealous knocking, and breathed a sigh of relief. "You remember me?"

"Yes. Should I not?"

"No, it's just--we met two days ago, right?"

Mike's frowned, his face thoughtful. "Time is a bit funny for me sometimes, but that sounds about right."

"Right. And you remember that. Me being in your flat, you giving me that book for Elias, me coming back to return your book. That all _happened_."

"Of course. Were you under the impression it hadn't?"

"No, I know it happened. I know it's been three days and you seem to know it's been three days, but everyone else at work and now that I think about it, the woman at the train station and your neighbor with the shopping--it's all been the same day for them? I think, anyway. I asked Basira and she told me it was still Tuesday. But Tuesday was two days ago. I _know_ it was two days ago, so today can't be Tuesday. But I don't think she'd lie to me, either, and I can't figure out what's going on."

Surprisingly, Mike didn't look at him like he was crazy. He didn't look annoyed or confused or any of the usual reactions that Martin expected to get from people when he spoke; he looked like he might believe him. "That is a bit odd." 

"Just a bit, yes." Martin laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. "Does that mean you actually believe me?"

"I think so. I noticed this morning that the umbrella I gave you yesterday seems to be back in its usual spot, which seemed a bit odd, since I would have remembered you returning it."

"I definitely didn't do that."

"Yes. So, the way I see it, unless you broke into my flat without my knowing and put it back, there probably is something strange going on here." Mike glanced down at the puddles Martin's shoes were leaving on the hallway flooring. "Did you want to come inside and dry off?"

"I--oh. Oh no. Sorry. I was in such a hurry to get here and then there was the wind and my umbrella was useless. And I made a mess of the floor. Your neighbors won't be happy with me, will they?"

"They'll probably be more annoyed with the knocking," Mike said and shrugged, unfazed. "But from the sounds of it, they're probably not going to remember anyway."

"They won't, will they? I guess that's one good thing," Martin said, still standing in the doorway. It took Mike arching an eyebrow and stepping to the side before he remembered himself and entered.

\--

Mike offered him biscuits with the tea this time, his face calm as he waited for Martin to stop shivering.

Martin sat in his chair, sipping his tea and eating a biscuit, laying out the details of the situation as best he knew them. It somehow managed to make even less sense when he said it all aloud, but Mike didn't interrupt to ask questions, only speaking when he was sure Martin had finished.

"Do you think you've been cursed?"

"I don't know? I don't think I've ever been cursed before." Martin leaned forward in his chair. "Is there a way to tell? Some sort of test we can do to check?"

"You'd probably just know."

"Right. So, probably not that? I don't feel cursed, I don't think. Unless I seem that way to you."

"Not particularly." Mike shrugged and set his mug on the coffee table between them. "So I'm the only other person you've met who seems to remember the past two days?"

"The only one that I know of. I suppose there could be more, but I haven't really had a chance to ask around." Martin stared down into his cup. "You know what the worst part is? I've been living the same day over and over, and I didn't even notice."

"Neither did I. Then again, I stopped paying attention to things like that a long time ago."

"Apparently I did, too." Martin sighed. "So...what exactly do we do about it? There has to be a way to fix it."

"Probably. There are solutions for most things like this."

"Have you heard of something like this before, then?"

"Not really. Some things that are similar, maybe, but nothing exactly like this." Mike leaned forward and picked up the package of biscuits, offering the last one to Martin. "I could ask around and see if anyone knows anything."

"Great. No, that's good. That should be helpful, right?" Martin took the last biscuit and held it, staring at the far wall as he tried to put his thoughts in order. "And I could look through our statements for something similar. Maybe ask Jon if he's read anything that could be helpful."

"This is all assuming, of course, that it doesn't end now that you've realized it's happening."

"...you think it could?"

"It could. Or it could get worse. It's hard to tell with these sort of things."

Martin slumped in his chair, his brief moment of hope fading. "Right. I guess all we can do is wait, then?"

"Seems like it." Mike picked up his empty cup and stood, giving Martin a questioning look. "You up for another?"

"Might as well," Martin said, then flinched a little at his own rudeness. "I mean yes, please. Thank you."

Mike didn't say anything, but he didn't look angry as he took Martin's cup and disappeared down the hallway. 

Martin sat silently, staring at Mike's many bookshelves, and listened to the sound of the rain beating against the windows.


	4. Still Tuesday

It was still raining the next morning, and Martin was fairly certain it was still Tuesday. 

He checked his phone just to be sure, then rolled over and buried his face against his pillow after the word **Tuesday** in the middle of the screen confirmed it. He stayed that way for a long time before he managed to drag himself out of bed and through his usual morning routine.

The box of pastries on his table was once again full; he stopped to try one on his way to the door, found that they were once again only slightly stale, and briefly considered bringing them to work with him. Then he thought about the rain and the fact that no one had taken one when he'd done so on that very first Tuesday, so he tossed them in the bin before he headed out the door. 

His morning commute was even less remarkable than it had been on every other version of that day. The woman in the blue jacket eyed his wet feet and bemoaned the rain and the general state of the London Underground, the businessman standing next to him for the duration of his train ride still stank of cologne, Jon reminded him about the meeting and stared very dubiously at his socks drying on the radiator, and Martin sat at his desk and wondered, very seriously, if maybe he'd died and been sent to purgatory. 

Or possibly hell.

He tried to do some work on a stack of statements that Jon had given him for follow up, but he couldn't bring himself to concentrate. Trying to figure out what was making the day repeat itself probably would have been more productive, but he had no idea where to even start, and there was a small part of him that was enjoying being overly-indulgent and taking the time to wallow in his own hopelessness and misery.

Even that got to be a bit much, though, so after a half hour of moping he gave in and picked up his phone, scrolling through his contacts in search of Mike's name.

Except Mike's name and number, which he clearly remembered entering into his phone the day before, just after he'd finished his second cup of tea, wasn't there where he'd left it. Because, as he'd already established, the only things about this day that seemed to change were him, his current level of misery and frustration, and Mike.

Martin thought about throwing his phone across the room, reasoning that even if it broke, it would be back to one piece in the morning. But then he thought about the year that he had left on his contract and he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He settled for glaring at the far wall instead.

"Am I interrupting something?"

He looked up to see Elias standing a few feet away, somehow managing to look both bored and faintly curious. "Oh. No. I was just...thinking."

"Yes, that much was obvious. Given your expression, I'd probably rather not know the subject." 

"It's not--" Martin frowned. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes, I have a job for you."

"What? I already did--" Martin started, some of his frustration leaking into his voice. Then he froze, his eyes widening as he realized that he'd run out too early over the previous two days to get to this part. But now here it was again, Elias standing there with the keys to Mike's flat in his pocket, about to offer him the perfect excuse to leave the building. "A job, you said?"

"Yes. There's a flat in Wandsworth that has something that I need. I'd like you to retrieve it for me." 

"Really? So, what exactly do you need me to get? Something important? Must be, if you want me to go that far. And in the middle of a work day. Not that I mind, of course," Martin said, attempting nonchalance. It involved a slightly pinched expression and an abnormal amount of blinking.

"A book." Elias narrowed his eyes and stared at Martin for a long moment before continuing, "A copy of Müller's _The Hymns of the Rigveda_ , to be more precise."

"Right. I can do that. Did you want me to leave now?"

"If you don't mind." Elias frowned at him until he looked down at the desk, embarrassed, and then laid the familiar set of keys and slip of paper on the desk in front of him. "I'll let Jon know that you're leaving."

"Oh, yes. Of course. We have a meeting--"

"I'd rather you retrieved it sooner rather than later. I'll handle Jon."

Martin reached for the keys and the slip of paper, not bothering to even glance at the latter before he shoved it in his pocket. "Yes. I guess he does still report to you, doesn't he?" 

"He does," Elias said, still staring at him, his gaze searching. For a moment, Martin was afraid he'd decide to press further, but instead he just nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he'd found. "I trust you'll put an accurate accounting of your time on your timesheet."

"Of course." Martin forced himself to wait until Elias was out the door before he stood to gather his things.

\--

Mike seemed much less surprised to see him this time. Or at least Martin thought so; it was hard to tell when his usual blank politeness was locked firmly in place, covering over any other emotions that might have been hiding underneath.

"It's still Tuesday." Martin winced a little at his own rudeness and unzipped his coat, pulling out an unopened box of the good biscuits that he usually kept squirreled away in his desk for bad days or special occasions. "Sorry, I mean, hello? How is your day going? I brought you these, since I ate all of yours. Although I guess that doesn't matter, since they'd all just be back now. Since it's still Tuesday. But I suppose it never hurts to have more, does it?"

"Thank you." Mike took them, entirely unfazed by Martin's rambling. "Would you like to come in? I can get you a towel and put the kettle on."

"That would be lovely, thank you." Martin stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He shed his coat, shoes, and socks, taking a moment to wonder at how it was starting to feel entirely too natural to be wet and barefoot in an almost-stranger's flat. He finished and started toward the study, then changed course at the last moment and headed for the kitchen instead. 

He hovered in the doorway uncertainly, watching Mike move around the small space with a practiced efficiency. "Sorry about dropping in on you like this again. I was going to text you, but my phone must have reset just like everything else, so I didn't have your number."

"It's fine. Can't really be helped, can it?" Mike motioned Martin closer and then pointed at a nearby cabinet. "I'll let you pick the tea today."

"Oh, thank you. I'd love to." Martin smiled a little and opened the cabinet, impressed by the rows of brightly colored boxes and carefully labelled jars and containers that he found within. 

He picked through the contents carefully, pulling out containers and boxes to take a better look, until a small black container covered in tiny gold flowers caught his eye. It looked expensive and, when he opened it, smelled absolutely heavenly. If it had been Martin's tea that they were about to drink, he would have chosen this one without hesitation; but it wasn't his tea, and it looked expensive, so he closed the lid and returned it to its place in the cabinet, choosing a box of less-expensive looking English breakfast instead. 

When he looked up, Mike was watching him, curiosity showing through the usual mask of polite indifference. "You can pick whatever you like. I don't mind."

"Yes, of course." Martin smiled awkwardly and closed the cabinet, then motioned to the box on the counter. "This is the one I want. Unless you'd like something different, that is. I can pick something else--"

"No, I'm fine with this if it's the one you wanted," Mike said and smiled back at him, a fleeting curl of his lips that seemed to be both well-practiced and far-too-stiff, like he couldn't quite remember how the expression was supposed to go in normal conversation. He went back to making their tea and Martin forgot his manners and stood and watched him, unable to make himself look away.

The lighting in the kitchen made Mike's eyes the same color as the hydrangeas that had grown around the house that sat beside one of the many buildings that Martin had grown up in. He remembered stopping on the sidewalk every afternoon on his way home from school just so he could get a better look at them, until one day the woman who lived there caught him at it and, laughing at his stammered explanation, gave him a handful of cuttings to take home with him. His mother had arranged them in her favorite blue mug and left them in the middle of their kitchen table, and Martin had thought he'd never seen anything quite so beautiful.

"Could you bring the biscuits for me?"

"Of course." Martin flushed and reached for the packet of biscuits, carefully not looking at Mike as he asked, "Do you need help with anything else? Sorry, I've been a bit of an awful guest, standing around and watching you do all the work."

"I don't mind," Mike said, once again sounding like he meant it. "Help me take these into the study, and then I'll get you a towel."

"Thanks," Martin said and followed him into the study, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.

\--

They didn't manage to find a solution to the problem that day; they didn't even really manage to figure out where to start looking, aside from agreeing that there was probably some sort of clue to be found between Mike's books and contacts and the Institute's statements.

Martin found that he didn't mind it, though; when he left that evening, Mike's umbrella providing scant protection from the rain, he felt calmer than he had in awhile, full of tea and biscuits and polite small talk that had been far more engaging than it had any right to be.

Mike's number was back in his phone when he climbed into bed that night, so he decided to send a quick message while he still could. _Thanks for the tea. And sorry about bothering you again. I'll try not to make it a habit._

His phone chimed with an answer just as he finished settling in beneath the covers and he picked it up, squinting at the text through the dark. 

_Come by around 5 tomorrow, if you want to compare notes. I'll be out during the day._

Martin typed out a dozen different responses before he finally settled on, _Sure! I'll bring more biscuits. :)_

Mike didn't reply, and Martin fell asleep with his phone resting on his pillow beside his head. That night, he dreamed about a room full of hydrangea bushes, its walls lined with shelves full of tea and pictures of the sky.


	5. The Fifth Tuesday

There was a hole in the street outside Martin's building. 

It ended just behind a parked car, close enough that one of its back tires was hanging over the edge, making the whole of the car tilt slightly to one side. It was almost like a mouth had opened in the earth and was trying to devour the car slowly, one bite at a time.

He stopped on the front steps and stared at it, mouth hanging open slightly and his umbrella still held, unopened, in one hand. He was positive that he would have remembered a hole like that being there on any of the Tuesdays before this.

"Can you believe that?" 

Martin turned to find one of his neighbors standing beside him, a middle aged man with a round face and an even rounder gut. He had his umbrella held above him, stretching over his head like a great dark hand, and he was staring at the hole in faint disgust.

"Do you think it's because of all the rain?" Martin asked, relieved to know that someone else could see it.

"It's not even been raining for half a day," the man said, spitting onto the steps below them. Martin flinched. "But I can tell you what it is. They just don't build roads like they used to. Never would have seen that back when I was a kid. Now it's just rush, rush, rush. Finish the thing, don't bother caring about how it will hold up. Disgraceful."

Martin didn't bother pointing out that the hole didn't look like the product of shoddy construction. It was too regular, too perfectly round. Too alive. "Yes, I--that's probably it."

"Of course it is. Well, I guess I'll be putting in a call to see if we can't get someone out to fix it," he made a disgusted noise and started down the steps, stopping to spit in the hole as he walked by.

Martin told himself that he'd imagined the angry sound of the earth shifting and the way its edges seemed to reach for the man as he walked away.

\--

Martin didn't bother taking off his socks or shoes when he got to work, opting to head off to start searching through statements as soon as he'd rid himself of his coat.

He was starting to regret that decision when, an hour later, he'd made very little in the way of progress and still had to deal with wet feet.

He'd hoped, somewhat foolishly, that he'd get some sort of feeling from the statements, a sign or a gut reaction that would lead him in the right direction. What he actually got was a nose full of dust and a dozen-odd paper cuts as he worked his way through box after box full of pages outlining people's worst fears.

Jon found him late that morning, standing there in his wet shoes and misery, and frowned down the length of the aisle at him. "You do remember we have a meeting, don't you?"

Martin surreptitiously tried to brush some of the dust out of his hair. "Oh, yes. I just thought I'd get some work done beforehand."

"I appreciate your work ethic, Martin, but the meeting starts in five minutes."

"Oh, is it okay if I'm a bit late? I just wanted to finish--"

"Is it so important it can't wait?"

Martin flushed and eyed the boxes of statements scattered on the floor around him. "I guess not…"

"Good. I'll see you shortly, then." Jon started to walk away and then stopped, eyeing the mess around Martin's feet. "Be sure you have this cleaned up before you go home today."

"Of course," Martin said and sighed, leaving the stack of statements that he'd gathered on an empty bit of shelf and pushing the boxes out of the way before he headed to the meeting room. He took a slight detour at the last minute to grab the box of biscuits hidden in the back of his desk, feeling a slight twinge when he thought about the pastries sitting in the bin at home.

\--

"I ran out of biscuits, so I brought this instead." Martin handed the bags of take away to Mike almost apologetically and slipped off his jacket and shoes. "I thought it might be good if we had some proper food anyway, this late in the day. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got curry and kebabs and sandwiches. I was going to get drinks, too, but my hands were full, and I thought you'd probably be okay with tea."

"Thank you. Tea is fine." Mike looked at the bags in his hands and then at Martin. "And I really don't have much of a preference when it comes to food."

Martin finished stripping off his wet things and stood in the entryway, staring at Mike worriedly. "Wait, do you--that is, can you still eat? I didn't even think of that. Sorry."

"I can," Mike said, and Martin's shoulders slumped in relief. "I just don't have to, so I don't bother a lot of the time."

"Oh. Well, we don't have to eat anything, then. I'm fine with just tea, really."

Mike's expression was thoughtful. "I remember liking curry. That might still be true."

"You think so?"

"Only one way to find out," Mike said and started toward the kitchen.

Martin followed after him, hoping that being a monster didn't affect one's ability to enjoy a good curry.

(As they soon found out, it didn't.)


	6. The Sixth Through Twenty-Second Tuesdays

The next morning found Martin with wet feet, a suspicious-looking hole still outside of his flat, and a desk that was completely empty of the stack of statements that he'd left there the night before.

"You've got to be kidding me." He stared at the spot where the statements should have been and told himself that it wasn't actually that bad. There were worse things than trying to research something that forced you to essentially start over again each morning. There had to be ways around it, surely.

He was still standing there when Jon walked in, eyed his wet feet and trousers and said, "I think it may be time for you to invest in some boots."

"Yes, I realize that. I will buy some boots when I actually have the time and I don't have other much more important things on my mind. It's not like it would even _matter_ if I bought them today, anyway."

"It was just a suggestion," Jon said, sounding slightly put out. 

"Sorry. I didn't sleep well last night," Martin lied, taking a deep breath and trying his best not to sound cross; it wasn't really fair to be angry at Jon. Just because Martin had heard similar comments several times already and he was getting thoroughly sick of having wet feet didn't mean there was any reason to be rude.

"Right. Well, I hope you can get yourself sorted before the meeting." Jon hesitated for a long moment and then continued, his voice slightly stilted. "That is to say, I hope you have less trouble sleeping tonight."

"Thanks," Martin said, continuing to stand there in awkward silence until Jon finally moved into his office and shut the door behind him.

He took a deep breath and sat down at his desk, staring at the empty spot on his desktop where the pile of statements should have been, his expression much meaner than was strictly necessary. It was probably the least effective approach to the problem, but it did make him feel slightly better.

\--

Martin showed up at Mike's that night with more curry, dessert, and very little in the way of progress. Mike seemed to be genuinely happy with the food and unfazed by Martin's complete inability to find anything approaching a solution to their current problem, so he decided that the day probably wasn't a total loss.

"I just don't know how I'm going to make it through the statements if I can't keep any notes. Most of them are still a bit of a mess, so finding anything at all is enough of a challenge, let alone anything relevant. And if I spend all day finding the ones I want and then they're just gone the next day...although I suppose I could just start staying late to read them. Or take them home with me. It probably doesn't matter how much sleep I get since everything will just reset itself anyway, right? " 

"Maybe you shouldn't bother with the statements, then." Mike rose from his chair and collected his and Martin's empty cups from the table, making his way to the counter to turn the kettle on.

"But I need to be doing something. I can't expect you to do all the work."

"Of course not." Mike opened the cabinet that housed his tea and pulled out a container and set about making them both a fresh cup. "You have a library there as well, don't you? Maybe that would be a better place to start."

"That's not a bad idea." Martin caught a glimpse of tiny gold flowers as Mike returned the tea to the cupboard and he smiled to himself. "It's brilliant, actually. Finding books would be easier than sorting through statements, especially with Tom there to give me a hand. I can't believe I didn't think of that."

Mike set his now-full cup in front of him and reclaimed his seat. "I'm sure you would have made it there eventually."

"I'm not, but thanks for saying so." 

Mike watched him, his expression thoughtful and his eyes almost blue. "I doubt you'd have survived at the Institute for this long without some ability to problem solve."

"You think so?"

"They'd have fed you to something else if you were as much of a dead weight as you seem to think you are." Mike shrugged. "Not that that's out of the question in the future, but you said you've been there for a decade, with more than two years of that in the Archives. You must be serving some purpose."

"That's...a good point." Martin stared down into his cup and flushed. "I guess I'll have to remember that. The part about being useful, that is. Maybe not the first bit."

"That's probably for the best," Mike agreed. "How's the tea?"

Martin took a sip and made a happy noise, smiling shyly at him over the brim of his cup. "Amazing. Thank you."

\--

The library, as it turned out, was a great idea on several levels.

First, relevant books were much easier to find (and re-find) than statements with questionable connections to what they were currently dealing with.

Second, Tom was extremely good at his job and seemed legitimately happy to help Martin with such nebulous inquiries as _Do you have anything about time going a bit funny?_ and _Has anyone written about days that seem to go on forever?_

Third, being out of the Archives and in the library made it easier to avoid Elias and his request for Martin to fetch that book from Mike's. He'd had that conversation at least half a dozen times by now and had always attempted various methods of putting off Elias's request until he was done with his research for the day. Those attempts never seemed to work quite as he'd planned, though. Elias got annoyed if he felt like Martin wasn't dropping everything to do his bidding, and no matter how many times he had to suffer through it, Martin still didn't have the skills that it took to win that particular argument.

And lastly, Basira always seemed to turn up right around the time that Martin was heading back down to the Archives with his stack of book in hand, and the conversation that he had with her was always infinitely more pleasant than any of his daily conversations with either Jon or Elias.

"Martin. Haven't seen you up here in awhile." Basira walked up to him, wearing the same politely curious expression that she always seemed to give him and his enormous stack of books. "Felt like doing a bit of research, did you?"

"Something like that." Martin stopped inspecting the stack of books long enough to offer her a slightly frustrated smile. "Did you know this library has a shocking amount of books about time? Like, a really ridiculous amount of them. I don't even know why we'd have so many. I swear, every time I think I've made it through the bulk of them, Tom just finds more. This is going to take me _ages_."

"Time, you said?"

"Yes." He shifted uneasily and turned his attention back to the topmost book, trying to keep his voice casual. "The, uh, statement that I'm looking into. For Jon. It has a day that repeats itself over and over again and no one seems to notice. Save for the person giving the statement, of course."

Basira hummed thoughtfully. "And you think it's legit? Not just the person imagining it all?"

Martin hesitated for a moment and then shook his head, refusing to let his mind go down that particular path. "No, it's real. Definitely real. Has to be."

"Well, that's interesting. I don't think I've heard that one before." 

"No one has, really. That's the problem. Not the books, not anyone Mi--," he stopped, covering the awkward pause with a cough and glancing at Basira to see if she'd noticed before he continued, "--I mean, not anyone _I've_ asked about it. No one seems to know anything."

Basira stopped to lean against the desk. "So, is it the entire day that repeats itself or just parts of it?"

"The entire day. Well, sort of. Some things seem to change, depending on what...the statement giver does. Or did. But those are just small changes, and everything else always resets itself at the beginning of each new day. It's always right back to the way it was when it all started."

"Sounds a bit boring, doesn't it?"

Martin laughed tiredly. "A bit, yeah."

"I wouldn't want to be the poor bastard having to deal with that."

"It's not all bad," Martin said, thinking about tea and curry and the constantly shifting color of Mike's eyes. "Some of it's kind of nice, actually." He looked up to find Basira staring at him curiously and cleared his throat. "Or, you know. It sounds that way. In the statement."

Basira looked unconvinced, but seemed willing to let it go. "Well, good luck finding whatever it is you're trying to find."

"Thanks, Basira." Martin's smile was probably more grateful than it should have been, but he meant every inch of it. He told himself it didn't matter if it was a bit much, since Basira wouldn't remember it for more than a few hours anyway.

\--

Martin was seated on the chair in Mike's study that he'd privately started to think of as his own. He was full of curry and tea and feeling much more relaxed than he should have been, considering he'd spent yet another day reading through books that proved to be completely and utterly unhelpful; he was willing to chalk it up to the fact that he'd managed to dodge both Elias and their team meeting this go round. That seemed as good a reason for happiness as any.

Martin thought that maybe Mike looked happier than usual, too. Or maybe he'd lived this day so many times now that he was starting to imagine changes where there were none.

"So I guess you like to read?" 

Mike's face was thoughtful. "I did, when I was human." 

"Oh. So you don't anymore?"

"I'm not sure, really." Mike followed Martin's gaze to the rows of bookshelves lining the back wall and shrugged. "I don't hate it. I even still do it sometimes, when I think of it. It just seems less important now."

"I guess that makes sense."

"What about you?" Mike turned his attention back to him, his eyes the color of the winter sky. It was the color they turned when he was curious about something. 

"Me? Yes, I love to read. Which is probably a good thing, since I have to do so much of it for work. Especially lately." Martin rubbed the back of his neck. "But I read whenever I can during my free time, too. I guess I always have? We moved around a lot when I was a kid, so I didn't have many toys or things I could take with me. Too much trouble to move, you know? But my mother always made sure I had a library card. So I always had access to books, even if they weren't mine to keep."

"Do you still have one?"

"What, a library card? Yes. I don't use it that often, but it would seem strange not to have one at all." Martin started to go on, thinking he'd tell Mike about all the Sunday afternoons that he'd spent in charity shops, sifting through stacks of old novels until he found a few to take home with him, but then he thought better of it. Mike probably didn't want to hear it, anyway. "Have you read all of these books?"

"I think so." Mike took another look at the bookshelves, eyes going even more pale as he mulled it over. "Occasionally I find one that I don't really remember, but I suppose I must have read them all at one point or another."

"That's impressive."

"Is it?"

"Yes? I think so, anyway. It's a lot of books." Martin stared at the far bookcase, wistfulness slipping into his voice. "I used to imagine having rooms full of bookshelves like these when I was a kid."

"Why is that?"

"It's a bit silly, but I thought people would come over and see them and think, look at all of those books. He must know so many things. And then they'd want to talk to me about all the things I'd read, and we'd have the sort of conversations that really smart people have. I guess I just thought it would make me more interesting."

"I think you're already interesting."

"Thank you." Martin flushed. "I mean, I don't really agree, but--thanks."

"You don't have to agree," Mike said, his voice matter-of-fact and his eyes back to being not-quite-blue. "If you ever want to borrow anything here to read, I'd talk to you about it."

"You would?"

"Assuming I remember having read it. Or that you give me time to read it again if I don't." 

"Are you sure? I'm sure you're busy--"

"I'm not busy," Mike interrupted him. "And I like talking to you."

Martin waited for some sign that Mike was lying or simply being polite, but his expression never wavered. He took a deep breath and laughed nervously, telling himself not to make too much of it. "Thanks. I'd like to talk about books sometime. Maybe after this is all over."

Mike smiled, probably the first genuine smile that Martin had seen from him. Something about it wasn't quite right, like he'd forgotten how the expression was supposed to work somewhere along the way and was only just now trying to remember; Martin still found it hard to look away. "After this is over, then."


	7. The Thirty-Fifth Tuesday

There was a hole in the floor of the station that hadn't been there before. 

It was perfectly round and far-too-dark, like the hole in the street in front of Martin's building; commuters skirted around it as they walked, a few muttering darkly about the lack of repair crews, others making faces, but none of them taking the time to stop and examine it more closely. Like a hole large enough to fit a grown man in the middle of the floor of a busy tube station was just something to be expected.

Martin started toward it, thinking he'd get a better look, then stopped suddenly in the middle of the walkway, his feet refusing to bring him any closer. He stood there for a long moment and just stared at it, breathing slowly in and out through his nose and wishing that he still had Mike's number in his phone.

He settled for taking a picture of it instead, deciding he'd show it to Mike later and get his opinion. 

"Awful rain we're having, isn't it?"

Martin slipped his phone into his pocket and nodded absently at the woman in the blue coat, waving her off when she offered him her handkerchief. "Did you happen to notice the hole over there?"

"Hole? Oh, yes. Texted my sister to tell her about it as soon as I saw. You know, she said they had one just like it up in North Ealing. Flooding, too. Had to shut down all the trains."

Martin glanced over his shoulder at the hole and frowned. "Right. Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?"

"Strange? No, it's more than strange. It's a disgrace, that's what it is. We get a little rain and things start caving in all over the place." She shook her head. "You'd think they'd find a way to get it sorted. It's not like the rain's not to be expected."

"Of course not," Martin agreed, still staring back at the hole. "We are in London, after all."

"That's what I said. Time to get it sorted."

"It really is," Martin said. He could hear his train pull up behind him but he stayed there, staring over his shoulder at that hole.

"Excuse me." He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find the woman in the blue coat standing closer to him than usual, her hand hovering near his shoulder. "I believe that's your train."

Martin slowly shook his head. "It is...but not today. There's actually somewhere else I need to be."

He left her standing on the platform, once again looking faintly confused, as he went to catch a train headed in a different direction.

\--

Mike seemed to have lost the ability to be surprised to see him. Assuming that he'd ever had that ability to begin with.

"Sorry to barge in on you so early, but I was on my way to work and there was this hole and I was talking to the woman that I keep seeing at the station and I had a thought." He stopped and took a breath, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and out of his eyes. "It's been raining a lot."

"I suppose it has." Mike blinked. "Maybe you should come inside."

"Oh, right." Martin walked in and stood in the entryway, not bothering to remove his wet things. "So, it's been raining every day, since it's all the same day, right? And everyone keeps saying that we live in London, the rain is normal, but I don't really think it is? I mean, yes, rain isn't that unusual. But if the day keeps resetting itself, then that means the rain should be starting over, too. But apparently the tunnels keep flooding and there may even have been a cave in at North Ealing, if that woman's sister is to be believed. And I think the hole outside my flat and the one at the station might actually be sinkholes. And those would have to be from the rain, right? Or at least I think so. I'm not entirely sure how sinkholes work."

Mike's brows furrowed slightly. "There's a sinkhole outside your flat?"

"Oh, yes. In the street, underneath the back end of one of my neighbor's cars. I may have forgotten to mention that." Martin frowned. "In my defense, there has been a lot going on."

"There has," Mike agreed, his expression slightly more serious than usual. "I think there may be something we need to look into."

"Sure. I mean, I didn't have any plans to go into work. I can help you look through whatever books--"

"Not books." Mike slipped on his shoes, then grabbed the umbrella from its place by the door, holding it out to him. "I hope you don't mind going back out into the rain."

Martin looked down at the state of his clothes and shrugged. "Why not? Can't get much worse than this."

"I'll make you tea after," Mike promised, and ushered him out the door.

\--

"Is this the kind of hole you were talking about?"

They were standing in the middle of a park a few minutes away from Mike's flat, a wide stretch of green covered in trees and benches and brightly colored playground equipment; it reminded Martin of some of the parks in the places he'd grown up, small and mostly unremarkable. The only real difference between those parks and this one was the hole the size of a small house sunk directly into the middle of it.

Martin leaned forward for a better view, his mouth going dry at the sheer size of it. It was perfectly round like the other holes and full of that same darkness, a black that he could feel trying to seep over the edges and pull him in. He knew rationally that there had to be a bottom to it, could see the way the mud sloped down the sides, but the thought of letting his eyes follow that line to its conclusion and actually see what was down there, waiting for him, made him feel ill.

He reached out, gripping Mike's arm as he leaned away from the edge and tilted his head back to stare up at the sky. "A bit bigger than the others, but yeah. I'd say it's the same."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine." Martin took a deep breath and tried to ignore the panic that he could feel clawing at the back of his throat. "I just have a bit of issue with claustrophobia? So holes aren't really my thing. Even really big ones. Which I know doesn't make much sense. But there's always so much dirt, and I just imagine what would happen if they started to cave in on me or if the earth started to open underneath me, which is a bit ridiculous because how often does that happen?" 

"Don't think about it." 

"Sorry, I just." Martin tightened his grip on Mike's arm and tried to breathe. "I'm trying not to."

"Close your eyes," Mike said, the words a soft command.

Martin looked at him and nodded, then slowly closed his eyes. There was a rush of wind against his face, enough to stir his hair and ruffle his clothing. He could feel the world tilt slightly to one side and he started to panic, reaching up to cling to Mike's arm with his other hand as well. The world stopped tilting, sudden enough to make him dizzy, and he could hear Mike's quiet voice telling him to open his eyes.

When he did, he found himself standing in the middle of an empty field with Mike, the grass spread out around them, stretching on and on forever. He knew logically that it had to meet up with the horizon and end, but when he tried to find the place where land met sky, all he could see was the blue covering everything; his gaze drifted upwards to see it towering above them, bright and endless, big enough to get lost in forever. It probably should have frightened him, the way it seemed to swallow all of existence, but he felt himself relax at the feel of its nothingness around him.

He breathed slowly and just kept staring up at it, giving himself over to its emptiness and letting it chase all his other thoughts away.

"Better?" 

Martin nodded and tried not to blink, too afraid that if he did it would all be over. "Are you doing this?"

"I didn't create it, if that's what you're asking. Not entirely, anyway. It's just something I'm borrowing for the moment. I thought it might help."

"It does," Martin said. He waited until his eyes started to water and the suffocating terror had faded completely, and then he let himself blink. 

The sky shifted from that unreal blue to the gloominess he was more accustomed to, once again covered in clouds as the rain poured down around them. When he looked at Mike, his eyes reflected the color of that other sky back at him. "Thank you. Sorry about that."

"It's alright." Mike put a hand on Martin's arm and started to lead him back the way they'd come, across the grass and up onto the sidewalk, leaving the hole further behind them with each step. "But I think you may have managed to find part of our answer."

"I have?"

"Yes. I think you're right about the rain. And the holes do seem to be a bit strange." 

"Yes. And the fact that they happened after this all started--"

"Not that one." Mike tightened his grip on Martin's arm to keep him from stumbling. "My neighbor was complaining about it last Thursday."

"Last Thursday? As in, the actual day and not just the day that should have been Thursday if we weren't repeating the same day over and over again?"

"Yes."

Martin tried not to put too much stock in the surge of excitement and hope that that one simple word brought him. "Okay, then. That does seem like it might be important. We should probably talk to your neighbor, then."

"That would probably be a good idea."

Martin walked beside him in silence for a moment before blurting out, "Can we just...wait to do that until after I've had some tea and a chance to dry off a bit? If it's not too much trouble."

"Sure. She might not let you into her flat in your current state, anyway."

Martin laughed. "I don't think I can really argue that."

\--

"Are you sure you wouldn't like something to eat? I picked up some cucumber from the shop today and I was thinking of making some sandwiches."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bennett, but we already ate." Mike's face and posture were aggressively polite as he turned down her third attempt at offering them food since they'd entered her flat.

Martin sat in the chair beside him and smiled, silently glad she'd never tried to feed him any of the times that he'd helped her carry her shopping up to her flat. He was fairly certain he wouldn't have been able to say no the number of times that seemed to be required for her to actually listen.

"If you're absolutely sure. You both look a bit pale, thought you might want a sandwich to fix that." She stared them both down and, when they continued to smile politely back at her, took a reluctant seat in the armchair across from them. "So, how exactly can I help you?"

"My friend has some questions for you."

Martin gave Mike a sharp look, his smile wavering. Mike stared calmly back at him.

Mike's neighbor cleared her throat. "Well, dear? No time to be shy, now. I haven't got all day."

"Of course not. Sorry." Martin forced another smile and turned to look at her. "I was just wondering about--Mike said you were telling him about a hole somewhere near here?"

"A hole? Oh, yes. That would be the one in the park. Saw it last Thursday when I was out for my walk."

"Yes, that one." Martin nodded and did his best to look encouraging. "Can you tell me about it?"

"Not much to tell, really. It was a hole in the middle of the park. I only noticed it because my ankle was bothering me--twisted it when I was younger, so it gives me a bit of a twinge if I work it too hard, you see. So I decided to cut my walk short. I cut across the grass to come back home and there was this bloody hole where it shouldn't have been. I nearly tripped over it."

Martin frowned. "Do you mean you nearly tripped into it?"

"Of course not. It wasn't big enough for that. Could have fit my foot probably, but that was about it."

"Oh, sorry. I thought--the way Mike talked about it, it sounded like it might have been bigger?" Martin leaned forward slightly in his chair. "Did anything about it seem weird to you?"

"Aside from it nearly breaking my ankle?" she said, looking progressively more unimpressed with Martin's line of questioning. "Not really. It was a hole and it shouldn't have been there. Why are you so interested, anyway? Are you planning on finding the person who put it there and giving them a talking to? Because I don't think they should be allowed to go around, punching holes anywhere they like and not facing any sort of consequences for it."

"What makes you think someone put it there?"

"Holes don't just appear out of nowhere. Especially not ones like that, all perfectly round. Someone had to use some kind of special tool to get it like that."

"No, you're right. They definitely don't appear out of nowhere." Martin shared a look with Mike and stood, half-relieved when she stayed seated instead of rising to join him. "Thank you. And don't worry about the hole. We're looking into it. You've been a big help."

That, at least, seemed to finally appease her, and she saw fit to return his smile. "Anytime. Just be sure you let me know if anything comes of it."

"We will," Martin promised, and for once didn't even hesitate at the lie.


	8. A Tuesday of Indeterminate Number

There were, as it turned out, holes popping up all over London.

Now that they'd made the connection, they were hard to miss, and Martin kept finding them in the strangest places. The produce section at the grocer's, in front of the till at the place he stopped to pick up their curry each evening, beneath one of the sculptures that he passed when he went to get lunch from the cafe near the Institute, and even one in the public toilet at the tube station closest to Mike's building. 

He tried not to pay attention to them, he and Mike both having decided that Mike would be the one to seek them out while Martin searched the Institute's library for any relevant information. Ignoring them was not something Martin was particularly good at, though, his eyes always drawn to their perfectly round edges and the creeping darkness that lay within them. 

Sometimes when it was quiet enough or after he'd had a particularly long day, he imagined he could hear the earth inside them calling him. He never mentioned that part to Mike, but he suspected that he knew something was wrong, given the number of times Martin had shown up on his doorstep, slightly panicked and still breathless from running.

Martin told himself that it was a good thing, having something concrete to look for now; it would make fixing whatever was wrong easier. 

Occasionally, he even believed it.

"There's a new one in the lion enclosure at the zoo," Mike said, watching as Martin drew tiny circles on the map of London that they had spread across Mike's kitchen table. 

It was a bit tiresome, having to do this over and over again each day, trying to see if there was some sort of pattern, but there was also something soothing about the repetition. He'd managed to memorize most of the older locations and had taken to marking them down while Mike put away the leftover curry (that was never there in the morning anyway, but neither of them seemed willing to just leave it out) and made them a post-dinner cup of tea. Mike would point out one he'd missed every now and then, and Martin would mark it down, then sip his tea and listen as Mike calmly ran through a list of the newest additions.

"And there's one in front of the north gate at Dulwich Park."

Martin drew a careful circle and then looked to Mike. "Any more?"

Mike shook his head and Martin nodded, hesitating slightly before he drew one last circle along the road that he took from his building to the tube station. Mike didn't comment, but Martin could feel him watching. He recapped the pen and set it aside, staring at the mess of color scattered across London. "Looks like that's it, then." 

"It's starting to look less and less like there's some sort of pattern." Mike set his mug on the table and leaned forward for a better look.

"And none of the ones you checked seem to be getting any bigger?"

"Just the one in the park."

"None of the ones I pass seem any bigger, either. And nothing I've managed to find in the library has been the least bit useful. Most of the holes I've read about seem to want to actively...eat things. Or be fed them. And these feel more like they're just there. Waiting." Martin sat back and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's a bit like staring at an answer to a riddle you don't know yet, isn't it?"

"A bit, yes."

"Right. Well, there's still time before I have to head home. I could give some of your books another pass--"

"You don't have to."

"I know, but I just feel like there's something and I'm missing it. If not at the Institute, then here." Martin gave him a sheepish look. "Unless you wanted some time to yourself? Sorry, I didn't even stop to think. I know I keep barging in here and taking up all your time. I can stop, spend some time at home instead."

Mike shook his head, his eyes a bit darker than usual. "I just meant you don't have to go home. You're free to stay here if you want."

Martin flushed. "I--that is. I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

"You're not. I have a guest room that you could use. It may need to be aired out a bit, but it should be perfectly serviceable."

"Oh. A guest room. Of course." Martin reached for his tea and took a drink, using it to cover the awkward pause while he tried to collect his thoughts. 

"It will save you another trip through the rain. And I'm sure I have something you can borrow to sleep in. Might be a bit snug, but it should do."

"Right. That makes sense." Martin set his now-empty cup down and tried not to look or sound too embarrassed. It was a practical solution, really, and Mike seemed to be made to be practical. "You're sure it's not too much trouble?"

"Not at all."

"Alright, then. I guess I'll just...stay over." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood to take his empty cup to the sink, rinsing it out a bit more thoroughly than was necessary. He tried to ignore the feeling of Mike watching him and told himself that this was good. He was glad they were both able to be so practical.

\--

Martin fully intended to look through Mike's books for anything relevant to their current predicament, just like he'd said he would. He even started to scan the shelves just for that purpose, but halfway through his search, he happened across a familiar title tucked between two out of order volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary.

"Find something interesting?"

Martin started at the sound of Mike's voice and turned, the book clutched tight in his hand. He hadn't even realized he'd taken it off the shelf, let alone how long he'd been standing there, staring down at its faded blue cover. Mike didn't seem concerned, though, just faintly curious, so Martin pushed aside his own unease and said, "It's just the book that I took from you. On the first day."

Mike watched him, his eyes a similar shade of worn-out blue. "Did you want to read it? Assuming you didn't have a chance to finish when you had it."

"Oh, I didn't. But I should probably read something a bit more helpful--"

Mike stared up at him from his seat in his armchair, expression unreadable. "I don't think it would hurt anything to take a night off."

Martin looked down at the book, its fragile pages with their uneven type calling out to him. "I don't think you want me to do that. I mean, it's poetry, and I always feel like I have to read it aloud to get the most out of it."

"Then do that."

"What?"

"Read it aloud."

"I couldn't. I mean you don't--do you even like poetry?"

Mike shrugged. "Can't say I've ever been that interested, but I don't think I'd mind hearing it from you."

Martin looked back down at the book, in whether that sentiment made him want to smile or crawl under the coffee table to hide. "My reading's not really that impressive. You'd probably be better off listening to recordings somewhere, if you really want to get a feel for how they're supposed to be read."

"I'd rather hear yours. If you're willing, of course."

"I--okay. Why not." 

Martin took a seat in the chair across from Mike, trying not to let his nervousness show as he opened the book to a random page. The letters looked slightly jumbled for a moment, but then he blinked and they were laid out the way they should have been, forming the shape of a poem that he was fairly certain he hadn't read the first time he'd looked the book over. He cleared his throat and started to read, his voice starting off soft and growing steadier with each line,

> "Lay your sleeping head, my love,  
>  Human on my faithless arm;  
>  Time and fevers burn away  
>  Individual beauty from  
>  Thoughtful children, and the grave  
>  Proves the child ephemeral:  
>  But in my arms till break of day  
>  Let the living creature lie,  
>  Mortal, guilty, but to me  
>  The entirely beautiful."

There was more to it, but he trailed off, his cheeks hot and his heartbeat fast and unsteady at the thought of going on. He risked a glance at Mike, telling himself not read too much into the words. Mike hadn't seemed to notice any of the implications of the poem, or if he didn't care; he sat there waiting for Martin to continue, his eyes still the same faded blue as the cover of the book.

Martin turned his attention back to the rest of the poem, stared down at the uneven words and couldn't bring himself to go on. He shut the book and offered Mike a flustered smile. "Sorry. That--that's it."

"A bit short, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Martin lied, setting the book aside. He ignored the part of himself that wanted to open it and finish what he'd started, see how Mike would react, or if he'd react at all. That part of himself also thought it might be a good idea to forget the book and walk over there and kiss him; it clearly wasn't to be trusted. "Sorry. I told you I wasn't very good."

"I thought you were," Mike said without hesitation. "I like the sound of your voice. Even if I'm not much for poetry."

Martin flushed. "Maybe I'll just have to keep reading it to you until you learn to love it."

Mike smiled his not-quite-right smile. "Maybe you will."

Martin stared at him and tried to think of something to say, some response that wouldn't make him sound like a complete idiot. But it was impossible to think with the sound of the rain and the color of Mike's eyes and the memory of the words he'd just read all tripping around his brain, vying for his attention. Unable to think of anything profound to respond with, he settled for standing and stretching his arms over his head instead. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm completely knackered. I should probably get ready for bed."

"Of course." Mike stood with him, apparently completely oblivious to Martin's inner turmoil. "I'll get you something to sleep in."

Martin nodded and mumbled another thanks, following him down the hall to the guest room. He stayed there while Mike went off to find him something to sleep in; when Mike returned he was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at the wall.

"Are you alright?"

Martin jumped at the sound of Mike's voice and turned to face him. He thought about how he'd handle this moment if he were a bit braver, asking Mike to stay or to return to the study with him so he could finish reading that poem. But he wasn't brave, so he forced a smile instead. "Fine. Just tired is all."

"I won't keep you up, then." Mike handed him a t-shirt that looked at least two sizes to small for him. "I'll be in the study if you need anything. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Martin said weakly, holding the t-shirt against his chest as he watched Mike walk out the door.


	9. The Final Tuesday

Martin woke up the next morning in his own flat, in his own bed, wearing the same pajamas he'd been wearing every Tuesday since that very first one.

He sat up and looked around the room, his brain still fuzzy with sleep, making it difficult to parse why exactly it felt so wrong to be in his own bed. His alarm went off and he reached for it automatically, catching sight of the framed photo of a much younger version of himself standing with his mother in the middle of a grass covered field, the sky stretching out bright blue and cloudless behind them.

He started to smile at the memory, then the sight of that blue sky caught his attention and he swore, throwing the covers off himself and climbing out of bed in a panic. He glanced down, confirming that he was wearing his own fraying t-shirt and pajama bottoms and not the almost uncomfortably tight t-shirt that Mike had let him borrow the night before. It was like he'd never even been at Mike's at all.

Which was ridiculous. He knew that he'd been at Mike's, and he knew the way this worked; it didn't matter where you put something at the end of the day, because it would always end up back in the place it had been before. It was just that, before this, those things had never included himself.

"Get it together, Martin," he said and took a deep breath, attempting to start going through his morning routine. This was unsettling, but it wasn't the end of the world. He'd just catch a train to Mike's to let him know what had happened, and next time they'd both know what to expect. 

Assuming there was a next time. And that Mike would want him to stay over again.

And if he did, maybe he'd even want to hear Martin read from that book of poems again. Martin really did want to make his way through the entire book someday, and it might have been nice if Mike was there to finish it with him.

It would be fitting, really, that they finished it together. If he hadn't taken that book with him that first day, he might never have talked to Mike again. They never would have shared tea or curry, Mike never would have offered to let him borrow his books, and he never would have seen that perfectly blue sky. 

It was such a small thing to make such a big difference, but that book really had changed everything.

Martin froze halfway through combing his hair and stared open-mouthed at the mirror, hit by the truth of that statement.

That book really _had_ changed everything.

It hadn't just brought them together, it had been the start of all of this. It had been there when he met Mike, and it had been in his bag on that second morning. When it should have already returned to its place on Mike's shelf instead. 

"Oh _no_ ," Martin whispered to the empty room. 

He left the comb on the edge of his sink and hurried to collect his things, running out the door with his hair still half-mussed from sleep and his umbrella still in its place next to his door.

\--

Mike wasn't answering his buzzer. Martin huddled in on himself on the top step and pressed it again, trying not to panic. There was a perfectly logical reason that Mike wasn't answering his buzzer. It was earlier than he'd ever arrived here before, so he was probably just still sleeping. Assuming he slept. Martin had never thought to ask.

Fifteen minutes and several hundred attempts at the buzzer later, Martin was fairly certain that Mike wasn't going to answer. He pressed it one last time, despite knowing it was futile, and tried to figure out his options. 

Going all the way to the Institute to get the keys from Elias would take too long. Mrs. Bennett wouldn't be returning with her shopping for several hours. No one else had gone in or out of the building in all the time that he'd been standing there. It was either find a way to break into the building or just stay here, standing on the doorstep getting wetter and wetter, hoping that another solution came along.

He stood there a few more minutes, trapped in indecision, before he climbed down the steps and made his way around the building, trying not to look overly suspicious.

\--

It took far less time than it should have to find a partially open first floor window. Finding a neighbor's rubbish bin to aid him in his breaking and entering took a bit longer.

He looked nervously around him before climbing on top of the now strategically placed bin and peered through the window, on the lookout for any movement inside.

He saw none. Which was somewhat unsurprising, since it was Mike's guest bedroom that he was currently staring into. The sight of the pale blue walls and empty bed made his decision for him and he reached up, trying to pry the window open as quickly and quietly as he could. He managed to kick the bin over as he climbed through the window, but by that time he was already more than halfway through and there was no going back, so he just hoped no one would look out their window to see what was happening and think to phone the police.

The fall to the floor was graceless enough that he was fairly certain he'd find bruises in odd places later, but he didn't bother stopping to check for any, simply picked himself up and shut the window behind him, blocking out the sound of the rain. 

"Mike?" he called out as he stepped into the hall, feeling a slight twinge of guilt at the wet, muddy footprints that he was leaving behind on the flooring. Mike didn't answer him, and he heard nothing to indicate he wasn't alone in the flat, but he still made his way from room to room, hoping to find Mike in one of them.

When he was sure that he was completely alone, he made his way to the study, telling himself that he'd find the book and look it over while he waited for Mike to get back.

The study was quiet, like it had been that first day, the gloom from outside making the familiar space look vaguely sinister. He tried Mike's name one last time, his voice coming out both too quiet and too loud in the silence of the room; when he got no answer, he made his way over to the bookshelf and found the two out-of-order volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary.

When he pulled them apart, there was nothing but empty space between them.

He frowned and searched the shelves around them, thinking that Mike might have put the book back in the wrong place the night before.

It was only when he stopped and took a step back, forcing himself to take a breath and collect himself, that he caught sight of a familiar blue out of the corner of his eyes. The book was across the room, in the seat of his usual chair, lying open and waiting for him.

He swallowed heavily and walked over to it, his hands shaking as he reached out, lifting it carefully from its place. It was open to the poem that he'd read on that very first day; the sight of that faded, uneven type gave him a sense of dread that it hadn't before. He felt the air grow still and stop around him.

He half expected Mike to appear behind him like he had that first day, pale and angry and wanting to know what the hell he was doing here. He didn't though, not even when Martin started to read the words out, his voice far too loud in the silence of the room.

> "Wrapped in a yielding air  
>  Beneath the eye's soundless hunger  
>  Close to the sea's clandestine tide  
>  Close to the earth's high hunger  
>  Loud in his hope and his anger  
>  Erect about his skeleton  
>  Stands the expressive lover  
>  Stands the deliberate man-- 

His mouth had gone dry, making it hard to form the words properly, and the still air of the room pressed in on him, holding him down and trapping him there. He wanted to shut the book, but his hands were shaking too badly and the air wouldn't let him turn his head to look away. Not knowing what else to do, he cleared his throat and continued to read, his voice weak as he struggled to finish what he'd started.

> "Beneath the hot incurious sun,  
>  Past stronger beasts and fairer  
>  He picks his way, a living gun  
>  With wind and rain and thunder  
>  A militant enquirer,  
>  The friend, the vast, the enemy,  
>  The endless, the able  
>  Able to feel the shifting of time." 

The air around him shifted into motion with the final words; he could feel things slowly start to move again, the sound of the rain beating against the windows filling the room as reality settled back around him.

He closed the book, staring down at the cover for a long, silent moment, knowing with a sudden surety what he needed to do. He wanted to wait for Mike, the thought of doing this alone terrifying, but he could feel a pressure in his chest, urging him toward the door, and he was equally afraid that waiting would mean he'd missed his chance altogether.

So he made his way to the front door and walked back out into the rain, the book still clutched firmly in his hand.

\--

The hole was even bigger than he remembered it.

It had grown since the last time he'd seen it, spread itself across the remaining space that the park had to offer until it stretched from one end to the other, leaving nothing but a dark emptiness in its wake. Most of the grass was gone, consumed by it, along with the trees and the benches and the brightly-colored playground equipment.

Martin stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and forced himself to look down into the darkness, into the very heart of it, down at the swirling mass of rain and mud moving along the bottom of the pit. The movement increased as he watched, growing more frantic, and the earth trembled slightly beneath him and gave a wet, hungry groan. 

He felt something clutch his ankle and he jumped, looking down to where mud had started to seep out of the edges of the hole and along the sidewalk, winding its way up the side of his shoe and beneath his trouser leg where it clung to his skin. 

He tried to take a step back and felt its grip tighten, holding him in place. He stared at it in faint horror and then, with shaking hands, did the only thing he could think to do in that moment: he opened Mike's book and started to read.

The words to the poem felt different this time, at once more wrong and more right, like reading them in Mike's study had only ever been practice for this moment. Like he'd only ever needed the wind and the rain and the hungry earth below him to make them come alive.

The pit began to churn angrily, the mud growing louder with each word, a thick sound that made his hands shake and his chest feel tight. The cold, sticky grip on his ankle wound its way upward, further up his leg until it was wrapped completely around his thigh; it started to tug him forward then, forcing him closer and closer to the place where the earth ended and the pit began.

He could feel himself start to panic more with each inch of ground that he lost to that slow, inevitable slide forward, but he kept reading anyway, his voice gone high and frantic as he gripped the book, white-knuckled, and squinted to make the words out through the rain; he'd managed to finish all but the last line when he felt one last, sharp tug on his leg, and then he was tumbling over the edge and down into the mud and darkness below.

The pain was secondary to his panic as he hit the muddy earth and started to slide downwards. The force of the impact stole his breath and forced the book from his fingers, sending it down the side of the pit away from him. It stuck in the mud and lay there open, just out of reach of the churning mass of earth and water below. 

His first instinct was to frantically claw his way upwards, out of the darkness and away from anything that might close him in, cover him over. He even managed a few feet on adrenaline and instinct before something approaching reason managed to fight its way through his panic. He swore and forced himself to stop climbing upwards, into the light and the sky and the open air, and made his way down into the darkness where the book waited for him.

The mud made the climb next to impossible, sucking at his hands and feet, clutching his knees when he fell, doing its best to hold him in place. By the time he finally reached the book, he was exhausted and his legs half-buried in the mud beneath him. He lay there and tried to catch his breath, felt it tug at him, trying to pull him down toward the bottom of the pit where it could swallow him completely. A crippling fear clawed its way up the back of his throat at the thought and he closed his eyes and pictured the blue of Mike's sky, stretching out over him, endless and untouchable. 

When he opened his eyes again, the book was lying open next to him, close enough that all he had to do was lift his head and he could read the last few words written on the page below him. They came out as a rough whisper, and that same stillness from before filled the air around him. 

He lay there and waited to see what would happen, trapped and terrified. And hopeful. Because he was fairly sure that that stillness meant he'd done whatever it was he was meant to do here.

That hope lasted for one brief, beautiful moment, then died when everything lurched back into motion around him and he realized that he may have managed to do what he came here to do, but he was still trapped down in the mud and filth and there was no way he was getting back out of it. Not on his own, and not while he was still alive. 

The earth gave a low rumble, angry and victorious, and shifted violently beneath him, tossing him backwards, down into the bottom of the pit. The fall knocked the wind out of him and he laid there, dazed, unable to do much more than gasp for air as the mud pulled him down.

He closed his eyes as he felt it start to cover him over, sealing him into darkness and crushing him beneath its weight, mud flowing into his mouth and choking him, not even allowing him the chance for one final, panicked scream.

\--

Being dead hurt a great deal more than Martin had ever imagined.

It seemed unfair, really, for his body to hurt this much; he couldn't remember it ever hurting this much when he was alive, his lungs and throat burning, every inch of him aching all the way down to his bones. 

His eyes were still sealed shut, so he couldn't even open them to try and see what was making him hurt so much. His ears weren't much more useful, either, still clogged with earth, but he thought he could hear a voice somewhere off in the distance, saying something that sounded a lot like his name.

"Martin!" 

Something touched his ears and the voice was louder, clearer, and sounded a lot like Mike's; he focused on it, wished that he could answer and tell him not to worry, that everything was fine now. Or would be as soon as everything stopped hurting.

He felt hands on his face, wiping something from his eyes, and he thought that was odd, that he'd still be able to feel someone touching him when he was dead. It was only when they'd managed to clear the mud from his eyes enough that he could open them that he realized they were Mike's hands, and that Mike was bent over him, his eyes a blue so bright that it almost hurt to look at them.

"Martin, say something." Mike shook him and Martin opened his mouth to ask him to please stop, but all he could manage was to cough. Great, hacking coughs that made his entire body shake and left him gasping desperately for air.

Mike turned him onto the side as he struggled to breathe, choking on mud and debris and leaving a dark stain on the flooring beside him. It was only then that he realized he was stretched out in the entryway of Mike's flat, not buried under layers of mud and earth; he had the brief thought that he'd have to help Mike clean this up later, but then Mike was beating a hand against his back, helping him clear his lungs, and all he could focus on was breathing.

"Good. Just keep doing that," Mike said, something in his voice that Martin couldn't quite place. Fear, maybe, if Mike had been capable of such a thing.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he was able to breathe almost normally again. His throat and lungs and limbs still ached, but it was starting to feel slightly less pressing, leaving him with the room to finally be grateful that he was still alive.

Mike rolled him onto his back and Martin stared up at him, noticing the mud covering his clothes, staining his arms nearly up to the shoulders.

"You found me," he croaked, the ache in his throat worth it for the way Mike looked at him.

"Barely. We're both just lucky you called me."

"I did?

"Yes. When you thought of the sky, it heard you. And so did I."

Martin blinked up at him. "Really? I was just trying to think of something that wasn't awful."

"Well, it worked." He put his hands beneath Martin's shoulders and helped him sit up, holding him steady even though it looked like he wanted to shake him again. "Next time, wait until I get home before you run off to try to sacrifice yourself. Or at least leave me a note and let me know where you're going."

"I didn't think I had time." Martin turned his head to cough. He caught sight of the mess of dirt and debris next to him on the floor and stared at it, wondering how he'd fit it all inside of him. "I think I ruined your floor."

Mike laughed, the sound startled and not quite human but so very, very Mike, and pulled Martin in for a hug. It wasn't a good hug, strictly speaking, Mike's hold on him a bit too tight in some places and too loose in others, but Martin shut his eyes and leaned into it anyway. "It's fine. I'll buy a rug."

Martin thought about offering to help pay for it, but found he was too tired, so he rested his cheek against Mike's shoulder and just let himself enjoy the fact that he wasn't dead.

\--

One of the worst parts of almost drowning in a pit full of supernatural mud was, as it turned out, the clean up involved afterwards.

Martin stared down at his ruined clothes and the muddy trail he'd left on Mike's bathroom floor and winced, wondering how they'd ever get all of this clean again. Mike, at least, seemed much less concerned, if the way he wordlessly stepped forward and started to peel the mud-soaked cloth away from Martin's body was any indication.

It took until he was nearly naked for Martin to realize what was happening and muster the energy to even attempt to argue. "I can manage on my own. You don't have to--"

Mike just looked at him, his eyes still that blinding blue, and Martin fell silent and let him finish what he'd started. He was too exhausted and dazed to feel more than token embarrassment when Mike left him standing there, naked except for the mud that had managed to make it through his clothing and onto his skin, and started the shower.

Mike stripped down to his boxers then, leaving his clothes in a slightly-less-muddy pile on the floor next to Martin's, and helped into the shower with a gentle hand on his arm.

The water was just this side of too-warm, hot enough that Martin couldn't mistake it for the cold of the mud or the rain; he huddled beneath it and stared down at Mike, surprised as always to realize just how small he was, almost fragile-looking. The effect was even worse without his clothes to hide behind, his skin pale except for his arms, still covered over in mud. The even paler lines of his scar trailed down from his neck onto his shoulder and chest, wrapping around his torso and disappearing beneath his waistband. 

Martin reached up to touch the scar on impulse, gently trailing a fingertip over one of its curves and leaving a smear of mud behind. "It's really beautiful," Martin said and then dropped his hand, embarrassed, turning his head to stare at the pale yellow of Mike's shower curtain.

"Thank you. I'm fairly certain I used to think so, too." Mike's voice was quiet but steady as he reached up and touched Martin's arm, guided him back where he wanted him beneath the water and then slowly, carefully started the task of cleaning the mud and filth from his skin.

It was a long process, but Mike's touch was gentle as he cleaned every inch of him, first with bare fingers and hands and then armed with soap and cloth. Martin stole glances at him throughout, trying not to let his gaze linger for too long, unable to tell if he was more embarrassed by his own nakedness or Mike's seeming obliviousness to it.

"I'm sorry," Martin said for no real reason except that Mike was being so careful with him and all he could do was stand there and think about how close he'd come to death. 

Mike stopped and looked up at him, smiling that not-quite-right smile of his, and shook his head. "I'm not."

"Do you even know what I'm apologizing for? Because I'm not sure I do."

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not."

"Right, then. That's settled," Mike said, setting the soap and cloth on a nearby shelf. When he turned back to face him, his eyes were bright and expectant, and in a moment of what could only be near-death-fueled lunacy, Martin leaned down to kiss him.

It only lasted a few seconds, Martin coming to his senses quickly and pulling away, a horrified look on his face. "Oh god. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, I know. It's just been a really long day and I almost died and I wasn't thinking. I promise I won't do it again."

Mike stared up at him, his face impossible to read. "Are you done?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm done. We should probably get out now. I can dry myself off and get dressed on my own--" He started to reach for the shower curtain, but before he could get there Mike grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down so that he was hunched over slightly, making it easier for Mike to lean up and kiss him.

Martin stood there, motionless, and tried to decide exactly what he was supposed to do in this situation. He wasn't really used to someone wanting to kiss him back. On top of this, Mike was actually a pretty good kisser.

It was all very unexpected.

Even more unexpected was the way that Mike slowly backed him up until he was pressed against the shower wall, the water-warmed tile pressing against his back as Mike pressed against his front, doing things with his tongue that made Martin go a bit weak in the knees; or maybe that was just an after effect of his recent brush with death. Martin gripped Mike's waist to hold himself steady, his fingertips brushing against the waistband of his boxers.

It was then that he remembered just how naked he was and pulled away, cheeks flushed from more than just the shower. "Mike?"

"Something wrong?" Mike asked. The heat of the water had given his skin a bit of color, making the lines of his scar even more visible. His eyes were still very blue.

"...I just don't. I'm not sure what's happening?"

"I believe I was kissing you."

"I know, it's just." Martin forced himself to meet Mike's eyes, their blue still so intense that he was afraid he might fall into them. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to," Mike said and leaned in to kiss him again, effectively silencing any other questions that Martin might have thought to ask. It was hard to find the energy to be anxious when Mike was pressed so close, the water and the thin material of his boxers the only thing separating them.

Martin dug his fingers into Mike's skin, shifting restlessly against him, unsure what he wanted. Mike pressed forward, rubbing against him, and Martin groaned and broke the kiss, tilting his head back to stare up at the stark white of the ceiling.

Mike gripped his hips and mouthed at his neck, steady and relatively unaffected while Martin felt himself starting to fall apart.

"Mike, should we--," Martin started, trailing off into a groan at the feel of Mike's teeth against his skin, careful but far from gentle. "Oh god. I'm not going to be able to stay standing if you keep doing that."

"Then don't," Mike said, putting one hand under him to lift him, then using the other to urge Martin's legs up around his waist. He rested one hand against the wall and kept the other beneath Martin, holding him there. "Better?"

Martin stared at him, eyes wide and breathing heavy, and nodded. "Yes. I think so?"

"Good."

It was a bit awkward at first, kissing Mike and trying not to panic every time either of them moved, afraid that Mike would drop him. Mike's grip on him never wavered, though, no matter how much he squirmed, and Martin felt himself start to relax into it, trusting Mike not to let him fall.

He was just starting to have vague thoughts that he should suggest moving things to Mike's bedroom when he felt something brush against his backside, the touch light and shockingly cold compared to the heat around them. He gasped and pulled back to look at Mike. He could see Mike's hand still pressed against the tile and feel the other cradled beneath him, holding him up, even as that cold brushed against him again. "What--are you doing that?"

"Yes. Is it alright?"

"It's...yes, I think so." The cold caressed him again and Martin shivered, legs tightening around Mike's waist. "I mean yes. Yes, it's fine. Feel free to keep going."

"Don't worry, I will."

Mike's other hand found its way from the wall to one of Martin's thigh and he urged it higher around his waist, spreading him wide and making room as the cold slid between his cheeks, tracing a line slowly downward and then back up again. It prodded at his skin along the way, curious and testing, until it found what it wanted and pushed, slipping inside him without warning.

Martin made an incoherent noise, fingers digging into Mike's shoulders as he tried to adjust to having that sharp cold inside of him, winding and nearly too large for him to take. It felt strange, both insubstantial and too-real at once, like the wind in his hair; it existed in sharp contrast to the feel of Mike's body pressed against him, concrete and finite, where it was separate and endless.

It pressed deeper inside of him, filling him up, expanding slowly outwards until he gripped Mike's shoulders and whimpered, afraid he'd come apart with it. Mike tightened his hold on him and kissed his neck, steady and unmoving, the solidness of him reassuring. Martin felt himself relax slowly, welcoming whatever it was inside of him, moaning softly as it left him stretched wide and vulnerable.

Satisfied, it started to explore him, winding its way around inside of him until he started to rock his hips, unsure if he wanted more or less, but knowing that he needed something. He felt Mike's mouth against his neck and he gripped his hair, trying to plead for more. All he managed was a whimper, but Mike seemed to understand, the cold inside him growing more and more intense as it pushed deeper, filling him completely.

When it got to be too much, he closed his eyes and saw a flash of the sky, perfect and blue and all-consuming; he felt himself start to fall into it, down into wind and nothingness. Even as he fell, he could feel Mike's hands on him, holding him together, and he relaxed, letting himself enjoy the drop.

When he opened his eyes again, his stomach was covered in his own come and Mike was watching him, expression full of something that Martin still hadn't quite learned to read. The cold emptiness receded, slipping back out of him, and he shuddered, feeling tired and empty and satisfied.

"That was--" He swallowed sharply and winced at the twinge in his throat, the reality of his body returning as he came back down to earth. "Wow."

"Wow yourself," Mike said, helping him unwrap his legs from around his waist so that he was left half-standing, half-leaning against the shower wall. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, I think so. I mean, my throat's a bit sore, and I'm pretty sure all of me is going to be sore in the morning, but I really can't bring myself to care about any of that right now." Martin smiled at him, happy and exhausted and more than a little dazed. "I really do hope we're going to bed now, though. I don't think I can manage much more."

"I think we can do that. You're about as clean as you're going to get." Mike started to pull away and then stopped, staring up at him with curious eyes. "I read the rest of it after you went to bed, you know."

Martin frowned, not quite able to make sense of what he was saying. "The rest of what?"

"The poem you read to me."

"I--oh. Well." Martin stared at him, dumbfounded. "What did you think?"

"It was fine." Mike shrugged. "But I think I'd rather hear it from you sometime."

"Okay...I guess I will, then," Martin said, still smiling as he let Mike help him out of the shower.

It took him longer than it should have to identify the light, airy feeling in his chest as happiness.

\--

Mike was surprisingly good at cuddling, considering that his hugs seemed to be a bit rubbish. Or it may have just been that Martin was the one doing most of the work, so that all Mike had to do was lie there and let Martin wrap himself around him.

Martin decided it didn't matter either way and took a moment to let himself be happy, one finger absently tracing a curl of Mike's scar.

"Do you think it worked?"

Mike shrugged. "Probably. The hole's gone. It closed just before I pulled you out of it."

Martin grimaced and pressed closer to Mike's side. "I'm glad I don't remember that part."

Mike rested a hand against his head and started to stroke his hair. "Probably best you don't."

"Yeah." Martin frowned, his finger stilling. "I am curious how you got me back here, though. You didn't...carry me, did you? Because I'm trying to picture--"

"Not exactly," Mike said, sounding faintly amused. "Not like you're thinking, anyway. I didn't exactly walk back here."

"Then how--" Martin tilted his head back to get a better look at his face and saw that the blue had finally started to fade from his eyes. "Right. Sky powers?"

"Yes."

Martin hummed thoughtfully and settled back against him. "I'm a bit sorry I missed that."

"We'll do it again sometime. Preferably when you're not dying."

"I'd like that," Martin said and curled closer.


	10. Wednesday

Martin Blackwood woke up on that Wednesday morning in early May an hour later than usual, wearing a borrowed t-shirt that was far too snug and still sporting his usual case of horrendous bed head. He tried to smooth it into some sort of order as discreetly as he could before he rolled over to face Mike, smiling shyly when he found him already awake and staring back at him.

"I guess this means it worked."

"It would seem that way." Mike's eyes were tinged with the faintest hint of blue, like the memory of a summer sky; somewhere outside, a bird was singing, and there was no sign of rain.

Martin moved in to kiss him because he could, part of him still surprised when Mike kissed him back and pulled him closer. He pulled away sooner than he would have liked, too afraid of pushing things. Mike just watched him, expression faintly curious, and Martin found himself blurting out, "I'm sorry about your book," before he could think better of it.

"My book?"

"Your book of poems. The one that I read to you. I fed it to that--whatever it was. It was the only thing I could think to do."

"Apparently it worked."

"Yes, but still." Martin watched Mike's face, noted how he didn't look anything except content and sleepy, and resisted the urge to kiss him again. "Sorry. I'll buy you another one. I should have said something last night when you were telling me you want to hear me read that poem, but I didn't think of it."

"I'm sure we can find that poem in another book." Mike shrugged. "And I don't think it really matters what poetry you read me."

Martin frowned, unable to decide whether he should be moved or offended by that sentiment. "It probably does matter. A little."

"I'll take your word for it," Mike said and leaned in for another kiss.

Martin decided not to be offended.

\--

Martin walked into work three hours late that morning, wearing a wide smile and socks and shoes that were completely dry.

Jon came out of his office while Martin was hanging his coat over the back of his chair, looking both angry and vaguely concerned. "Martin. Good to see you made it in."

"Thanks," Martin beamed at him and sat at his desk, enjoying the novelty of conversation that didn't involve his socks or as-of-yet unpurchased wellies. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

"I suppose." Jon narrowed his eyes suspicious and leaned in to sniff the air in front of him. "You haven't been drinking, have you?"

"What? No, of course not. It's not even noon yet."

Jon leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Right. Then you're--is everything alright? You never came in yesterday."

"I guess you would be able to remember that now," Martin said, smile replaced by sheepishness. "Sorry. There was just...something I had to do."

"Well, I hope it was important."

Martin nodded and started to smile again. "It was, actually. And don't worry, I'll be sure to mark it as a holiday on my timesheet."

"Yes, you do that." Jon looked like he wanted to argue, but he shook his head and turned to head into his office instead. He stopped in the doorway and turned to look at Martin, calling out over his shoulder. "I believe Elias wants to see you. He was here looking for you yesterday. I've no idea what it was about."

"Just a book," Martin said and pulled out his phone to text Mike.


	11. Some Other Tuesday

Elias Bouchard stepped into the Archives on a Tuesday in mid-June wearing an impeccably tailored suit and his most bureaucratic smile. The Archive staff were all seated around a table having their weekly meeting, and they turned as one to look at him. Behind him and just out of their view stood a man with an unfailingly polite expression and eyes a color that was not-quite blue.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I thought this would be easiest if I caught you all in one place." Elias looked to Martin, taking in his vaguely confused expression, and his smile widened. "I wanted to introduce you to our newest Archival Consultant, and I thought it might be easiest while you were all in one place. Everyone, this is Michael Crew. I believe some of you are already familiar with him."

"Please, it's Mike," the man said, and stepped out into view.

Jon paled visibly and mumbled, "Oh no." 

Across the table, Martin broke out into a smile. 

"Well, then. I'll leave you to your meeting. I trust you'll all be very welcoming to Mr. Crew." Elias gave Mike and Martin each one last look, found that they were both too busy staring at each other to pay him any attention, and then smirked at Jon before he turned and headed out the door.


End file.
